The Sun Kisses the Sea
by Ormiss
Summary: [Suikoden V] [Arshtat & Ferid] Duty and necessity dictate the life of a Royal Princess, cutting and burning all paths that do not benefit her nation. Only the strongest of wills could bind two lovers to the throne of Falena.
1. Chapter 1

**Introduction:** This is a developing romance/action/adventure story centered on the relationship between Arshtat and Ferid. My intent is always to stick as close to the canon story as possible, but I will make whatever deviations from the known facts that I deem necessary in order to make an entertaining story. The story begins in the past, with the meeting of Arshtat and Ferid, and will eventually play all the way up to the end of their lives.

For reference, Ferid was born in Solar Year 413, while Arshtat was born two years later, in 415.

* * *

"_Whoso lays hand on a Royal Princess of Falena (hereafter referred to as the subject,) that is not Mother, Father, Sister, Brother, or otherwise related by blood or by adoption (see 32§) or has been tasked with the protection of the subject (see 33-35§§) is an abomination to the Queendom of Falena, and is to be found guilty of despoiling the virtue of the subject, a crime equal in gravity to extraordinary depredations (see 47-49§§) for which the punishment is flogging and death. Thus speaks Her Majesty the Queen."_

- Excerpt of Falenan Law

* * *

**-Ferid-**

Solar Year 420

The warm breeze ruffled Ferid Egan's hair and caressed his naked legs beneath the knees as he ran across the _True Water_'s deck. Grabbing the gunwale, he leapt over the railing in the same moment he reached it, and landed with a slight thud on the stone pier, startling a group of father's marines. They chided him with lenient smiles, and he grinned as he ran past them, waving.

Groups of people lined the pier, drowning the call of gulls beneath a cacophony of disparate voices shouting back and forth as porters and stevedores carried goods to and from the moored vessels. Ferid wove through them, dodging bureaucrats and soldiers as he made his way towards the quay. The docks were laid with gravelly granite, no doubt of the popular kind imported from the old Kooluk quarries on the archipelago—his father had said—and seemed undressed to his eyes. Unaccustomed as they were to ocean trade, the Falenans had left the Hershville piers naked, stripped of moorings. For their smaller river ships, this arrangement was not a concern, but it proved a problem for a galleon.

His father had come prepared, though, and Ferid ducked under taut lines as he ran, ropes fastened around heavy wooden spools that guarded the _True Water_ against the southern breeze. Leaping over a coiled length of rope just as a pair of sailors bent down to grab it, Ferid laughed and ran down the base of the pier, ignoring their curses. Reaching the quay, he walked along its unshielded end, balancing along the edge with the water four feet below as he watched the port.

The granite foundation formed broad avenues between the sparse buildings; small wooden shacks used for storage mixed in among houses with white plaster on their walls. The roofs were sloped, and of wood, rather than tile. Laborers in plain work clothes mingled with officials in tabards, some shouting orders while others flipped through thick bundles of vellum pages, overseeing the distribution of goods. Soldiers strolled down the quay in small groups of twos or threes, dressed in smart buttoned gray uniforms and burgundy berets. Leather baldrics supported sheathed sabres hanging in scabbards at their hips, and the weapons drew Ferid's eye. At the age of seven, he had begun to yearn for a chance to learn swordsmanship, but Mother had vetoed it. 'In a few years,' she said. Ferid frowned, and sighed as he watched the soldiers pull two screaming sailors apart before the pair flew into fisticuffs on the docks.

Ferid turned his eyes just in time to dodge a running porter carrying a barrel against his shoulder. Catching his balance, he avoided the plunge. The man hurried past without a glance or a word.

Beyond the docks, the remainder of the merchant port was shielded behind fortress-like walls of clean blue and brown bricks. The broad stone steps that cut through the escarpment to join the docks with the town were steep in their ascent, and a large group was making its way down one of these stairways. Sailors and workers seemed to part with their passage, keeping their distance or bowing respectfully as the throng passed. The newcomers made a motley group, some in intimidating black and gold uniforms with swords at their sides, while others wore flimsy silks in the bright colors of the sun; white, yellow, red and orange. Port officials crowded them, hovering to fit in place as they walked, bowing and scraping with every word spoken.

Ferid stared curiously at the procession as it descended upon the quay and spread out near the piers. The working men of the quay gave them wide berth and seemed content to pretend that they were not there. Several sailors passing by Ferid stole glances at the silk-clad women as they hurried past, but none of them dared look openly.

Ferid was, perhaps, the only one on the quay who saw the small girl separate from the crowd. Clutching some cloth object to her chest, she glanced to the sides and ran down the quay. Ferid watched with fascination as the silver-haired girl, perhaps a few years younger than him, ducked behind barrels and crates and stacked piles of sacks, sneaking past oblivious porters and making her way towards the far pier. He could see that she was smiling broadly as she passed him, and noticed that what she clutched to her chest was a cloth animal of some sort, similar to the toys which his tedious little sisters played with.

He began to follow her. Casually walking down the quay, he kept his distance and was careful not to let her see him. The stealth seemed a part of her game, and he had to follow the rules if he wanted to play.

Near the end of the quay, the girl—smothering giggles behind her hand—ducked behind a stack of crates and knelt down, dragging fine silk against dirty granite as she scuffled into a less visible position. Certain that she had not seen him, Ferid grinned as he ran through a group of arguing laborers and bureaucrats and hid behind two sacks of flour.

The sacks were promptly pulled from the ground by a pair of porters. They eyed him suspiciously as he scrambled away, having lost his hiding place.

Watching the girl, he saw her creep around the crates, on hands and knees as she glanced to either side. She had not seen him.

Exhaling, Ferid pressed up against the port's far wall and knelt next to a large crate. Looking round, he saw no one moving towards it. Crawling up, he poked his head out and looked for the girl. She was at the edge of the quay, still hiding beneath the crates that were stacked beneath the bowsprit of a clumsy foreign carrack. A smug smirk creased Ferid's lips as he began to sneak towards her.

Suddenly, a group of boisterous porters approached the crates. The girl's eyes widened, and she scrambled backwards. Turning, she lost her balance, and fell.

…Into the water.

Ferid shot up, and started laughing. Sailors and porters began to take notice as he ran over to the edge of the quay.

His laughter died in his throat. The girl was foundering.

She kicked and flailed wildly against the surface, splashing water about her. She tried to cry for help, but her mouth filled with water as she screamed, changing words to gurgles and shrieks.

She looked terrified.

_She can't swim? _The thought made him cold inside. _Why?_ Her head bobbed under water several times as she fought for air, loosening her hair in soaked tresses. Her drenched silk clothes clung to her limbs, obstructing her motions.

Ferid looked round, wide eyed as he watched more and more people gather at the edge of the quay. They stared at her, and some raised shouts for help.

But no one did anything.

"Why won't you help her?" he shouted. "Can't you see she's drowning?"

Several men mumbled something under their breaths. One Falenan sailor looked at Ferid. Clutching at his hair, he looked panicked. "She's a Princess. Touching her is punishable by death!" he said.

As if it would explain everything.

"That's stupid!" Ferid said hotly. His heart hammered at his mind as he watched her sink beneath the surface. Her eyes were so frightened. He drew a deep breath.

The crowd erupted in shouts of surprise and anger as he leapt from the quay.

With a splash, he broke the surface, and cool water hugged his body. His hair swayed with his motions as he swam down, and he opened his eyes.

The girl had stopped flailing. She was still.

His heart skipped a beat, and he swam frantically. Reaching her sinking body, he grabbed her shoulders with fumbling arms. Pushing up, he shot towards the surface.

Something resisted.

Looking round in a panic, he saw the ship's taut anchor line. Somehow, the girl's silk sleeve had gotten entangled in the sturdy rope. Reaching out, he tried to tear it loose. The fabric did not yield.

His lungs protested. Ignoring it, Ferid swam to the rope. He felt around his belt, and groped for the knife. Grasping it, he pulled the small blade from its sheath. Cutting his thumb on the edge. He cursed inwardly as blood mixed with water.

Grimacing with pain, he pressed his bleeding thumb against the handle. Grabbing the girl's arm, he lifted the cloth and began to slice the sleeve open.

His heartbeat seemed to pound in his skull. The water seemed darker, the surface more inviting. He pushed the feeling away.

He dropped the knife.

In a panic, he tumbled, and caught the blade. The girl's weight pushed against his back. He spun around, and cut wildly, slicing the sleeve clear of her arm.

She was free. He slung his arms around her shoulders.

Lungs hurting, he kicked down and shot up.

Breaching the surface, he gasped for air. The shouts of numerous voices filled his ears along with the call of gulls sailing overhead. Drawing deep, glorious breaths, he looked at the girl.

She did not move. Her eyes were closed, and her chest was still.

Frightened, Ferid looked to the quay. The men along the edge made no motion to pull her up. One man threw the end of a rope into the water. _I can't pull her up that way! _Behind him, a skiff swayed on the waves his emergence had caused. He grabbed the rope and swam towards it.

His blood soaked her dress as he pushed her up and into the small boat, and she splayed out across in its bilge as he sat down to catch his breath. She did breathe.

Without a thought, he cut the skiff's mooring line and started pulling at the rope he held. Muttered voices and shouts met him as he slammed the skiff against the stone quay, but he ignored them. They were insane.

Standing up in the skiff, he pulled the lifeless girl from the boat and groaned as he pushed her over the quay's edge. He heard shouts, and someone was running towards the group.

"She's not breathing! Someone save her!" he pleaded, looking into their eyes.

"The knights are coming…" someone mumbled.

Too furious to speak, Ferid looked at the girl. He knew what to do, right? But he had never done it… What if he did something wrong? _She's a Princess?_ He had not thought about it until now.

_It doesn't matter. She's going to die._ He drew a deep breath.

Screams of outrage erupted around him as he bent down and pressed his mouth against hers. Leaning her head back, his knife dropped from his hand as he pinched her nose. _You're supposed to, right? What if I don't remember right? _He pushed the thought aside, and exhaled into her mouth.

Someone pushed him away. "What are you doing?" his outraged voice demanded.

Ferid did not respond. He pushed his way back to her, and resumed the process.

There was no response. The crowd was getting restless around him. Someone kicked him, knocking him aside.

Ferid felt like crying. "Please, help her!" he pleaded.

A menacing man loomed over him. "Get away from the Princess!" the sailor said.

Rising from a crouch, Ferid gritted his teeth and hit the man in his groin. He doubled over with a groan, and Ferid ducked past him.

The girl was still not breathing. He placed his hands upon her chest and pushed. The man behind him cursed. Sobbing, he leaned down to blow air into her mouth.

She coughed, and sputtered water.

A buzz rose from the crowd. Coughing, she leaned to the side, and her small hands grasped at the stone foundation. Filled with joy, Ferid smiled, wiping tears from his eyes.

His cheek erupted with pain. Dazed, he stumbled to his feet, gaping. His cheek throbbed with the sting of a vicious slap. Looking up, he saw a broad-faced woman stare down at him. She wore the black and gold uniform he had seen before, and she was furious.

"How dare you touch the Princess? You dog!" she shouted.

"B-But I…" Ferid sniffled, terrified. _I just wanted to help!_

"You've violated the Princess!" the livid knight hissed. She seemed frantic, somehow torn between feelings, but her words were all too clear. "You'll hang for this!" she promised, and drew her sword in the same motion.

Ferid was too scared to speak. His pants, already soaked with water, felt no different as he wet himself in sudden fear. Scrambling back, he turned and leapt headfirst into the water.

He heard one last shout. "Get him!" Then the water washed his tears away.

Swimming with quick strokes, he made his way down along the carrack's black hull. The ship was ill kept, and his hands were torn on barnacles as he pushed himself down and underneath the keel. Swimming up, he reached the surface and looked around as he drew breath.

Something floated on the surface. He blinked water from his eyes and looked closer.

It was a cloth animal… a lion. The soaked fabric bobbed in the water, lending a look of sorrow to the animal's cute face. _That's hers!_

Ferid grabbed it, and held onto it fiercely. Suddenly it did not seem so stupid anymore.

Reaching the pier, Ferid reached out to grab a slack line tying a flimsy river boat to its makeshift moorings. Holding the cloth lion so hard that he wringed water from its fabric, he climbed along the rope and reached up to the pier's edge. Breathing heavily, he climbed up and over the stone, sitting down on the pier. People moved around him, but he paid them no heed and they spared him no more than cursory glances.

He sucked on his thumb, nursing the wound, and winced. Rising, he begun to sneak up the pier, towards quay where people were running to and from in chaotic patterns. _I've got to return the lion._ The angry knight frightened him to silence, and he held his breath and looked all around as he approached. _Maybe if I give it to someone else?_

"You'd better not, boy," a deep voice said.

Ferid looked up to see another knight, a man.

He backed off. "I-I just want to…" Fear halted his words.

The imposing man approached him slowly, glancing back to the distant crowd. Though stone-faced and with deep-set, severe eyes, he did not seem angry. His hair, arranged in a top-knot with tresses falling down his shoulders, was silvery white, but he must have been younger than Ferid's father. Along his back was slung a massive axe; the most enormous weapon that Ferid had ever seen.

"Boy, I heard about what happened. I think I understand, and I'm grateful. Jumana, though… she's ashamed. She feels that she failed, and she's upset." He glanced back again.

"I was just trying to help! I _did _help her!" Ferid blurted out. Anger replaced fear, now that the man's intentions were known.

"I know. She'll want to find you, though. I prefer if she didn't." He dug out a small pouch from his clothes. "Take this. To show our gratitude." He held it out.

Ferid clasped the pouch, gaping as his eyes darted between it and the knight. He wanted to protest, to tell him about the lion… but he was too frightened to speak. The man's stern eyes, though emotionless, felt like pillars of stone upon his chest.

"Is that him?" the familiar voice of a woman cried out from the pier's base.

The stone-faced knight turned, rising. "No. It's just another boy," he said.

Ferid rose to shaky feet. Now that the end of the ordeal was approaching, he felt weary, and hollow. Pressing the lion against his chest, he untied the strings to the pouch.

It was filled with Falenan coins. Gold coins, with a woman's face framed by the Sun Rune emblazoned on each one. He had seen them before, but never this many at once. Not in his hands.

He felt furious. Swiveling, he raised his arm and, before he knew it, threw the open pouch.

It slammed into the knight's tall back with the sound of clinking coins.

Fear mixed with anger in Ferid's mind as the man stopped. There was a pause.

Without so much as a glance, the knight kept walking as the coins settled around his feet.

The setting sun basked Hershville in crimson and orange as the _True Water_ set out from the port that evening. Ferid stood leaned against the railing atop the sterncastle as the ship was eased out past the river mouth, and watched the stone quay disappear.

The girl had long since been carried away, and the knights had left along with her minders. He clutched the cloth lion to his chest and glanced at its face, so sorrowful in the sunset.

Departing a port, a sailor always knew that he would one day return. No departures were forever, no ends final save the sea's embrace.

For the first time in his life, Ferid Egan felt as though he were sailing away from something he would never see again.

That feeling of sorrow would linger for many years.

**-Arshtat-**

Solar Year 433

The ocean, Princess Arshtat Falenas reflected, was the stage of boundless dreams; fathoming the world's nations in a cold and uncaring embrace that taunted mankind, inviting the intrepid to test their spirits against its immeasurable depth, and destroying the faint. Ingenious, ever exertive, mankind had endeavored to control the seas, crafting ships and sails and rudders and oars, all designed to tame the blue road of water and harness its limitless potential.

Glancing to her right—as she faced the bow, it was the _starboard side_, Captain Serwid had explained enthusiastically—she shielded her eyes from the glaring sun that split behind the masts, and watched the riggings. There were numerous parts, there; cloths and ropes and beams and whatnot, all with elaborate and specific names that described their function to the skilled man of the sea. To her, it was all a tangle, a meticulous puzzle of design and purpose, and as sailors climbed up and down ratlines and across spars, it seemed a chaotic dance to her.

Hands clasping the portside gunwale, she turned her eyes back to the calm seas. _No. We are ingenious, and exertive, but we are hardly in _control. _We struggle so much to maintain the appearance, but we remain at the mercy of the elements, of the ocean, if it has a will._ Even so, the prospect of letting the current carry you to distant lands fascinated her. She was afraid of the sea, terrified of it for as long as she could recall, but with familiarity came some abatement of fear, leaving a sort of exhilaration in its wake; an unsurpassed feeling of liberation. Perhaps the seasickness had been a blessing, relieving her of thought at first, and allowing her to grow accustomed to the swaying of the ship and its tilt upon the surface. Perhaps it was protection from the fear. The sea undulated; rose and fell with the waves. Three days out at sea, she had begun to feel at ease.

Arshtat tensed up as the ship tilted further to the side, and she glanced at the sailors hard at work with the sails, scanning their features, words and behavior for signs of worry. It was her ritual.

Sialeeds seemed fearless in the face of the ocean cruise, and Arshtat's worry for her sister's enjoyment of the trip had been in vain, to say the least. The girl laughed as the ship tilted, leaning back with her hands clasping the railing to feel the full effect of the slope against the deck.

"Sister, make them tilt the boat more! I want to touch the water!" Sialeeds laughed. She leaned over the railing as the ship made gentle leaps through the waves, spraying salt water onto her face. She laughed.

Arshtat froze up at the thought, thankful for its ridiculousness. "I am afraid that is impossible, dear. I am informed that the tilt depends on the wind's strength and direction along with the composition of sails. Besides, this is a _ship_, not a boat. I do not know why the distinction is important, but Captain Serwid was near frantic in his stance on this, and I do not wish to upset him."

Sialeeds rolled her eyes. "That's boring, sister. Can't you tell them to make it go faster, then?"

Harwan laughed. The man stood a foot behind his charge, casual and relaxed but ready to protect the little Princess—from herself, in this case—should it become necessary. The bodyguard was dressed not in the Queen's Knights uniform, but in civilian clothes of humble cut and color, a brown tunic with white sleeves. Stroking his sun-basked neck, he winked at Sialeeds. "Milady will steal the True Wind Rune from the skies to please her little sister, I think. Will she succeed…?"

Arshtat laughed as Sialeeds' eyes lit up with excitement. "I think further tilt or speed would be a poor reward for Jumana's services." She glanced to her left, where her bodyguard leaned against the railing, face pale and sallow. Her eyes kept darting between Arshtat and the specks of land in the horizon, as if she could not decide what to focus on. Arshtat frowned with concern. "Is it any better?"

"Sometimes I think it is, but…" Jumana began, cutting off her sentence to swallow.

Perhaps it was her foreign upbringing that made the New Armes woman so queasy around water. The sea was something else entirely, but Arshtat had grown up on and around the Feitas, and she suspected that it was a slight help. "Captain Serwid said to keep your eyes steadily on firm land. I know that you are concerned for my safety, as you should be, but I do not think there is much to fear here."

Jumana shook her head. "I might as well admit that I'm incapacitated, then. Besides, I don't like the look of some of these scoundrels. I don't trust Island Nations folk." She muttered the last bit under her breath as she looked over her shoulder at the sailors and sparse marines.

Harwan placed a hand on Sialeeds' shoulder as he turned his head and chuckled. "You're hopeless, Jumes. It's been three days; shouldn't you be getting used to this pleasure cruise by now?" He looked at Arshtat and winked.

Arshtat held the sigh inside, and looked at Jumana again. "You are still a knight," she said. "Even if I see the threat before you, you can still protect me, and Harwan is here as well. If I promise to be watchful, will you do as I say?" _Stubborn woman. What do we have to fear from these harmless men?_ She knew what Jumana would say, had she voiced this question aloud. 'No man is harmless.' Arshtat had never known a mind more paranoid.

The look on the knight's face was unconvinced at best as she muttered something evasive. Arshtat sighed, then, but Jumana seemed to acquiesce, turning her eyes on a distant island, at least for a time.

Something tugged at Arshtat's sleeve, and she turned to see Sialeeds look up at her with a large smile on her face. "Sister," she said, "Will you tell me more stories tonight? I want to hear more about the girl who stole the Blue Moon Rune from the man in the moon, and you still haven't told me about the man who swam beneath the ocean to retrieve the Sword of the Night from the shark men!" She turned to the railing restlessly. "Do you think he swam beneath here? Do you?"

Arshtat laughed and scooped up Sialeeds in her arms. Her sister giggled as she pulled her close and kissed her cheek. Holding her, she pointed to the sea and said, "I believe so. In fact, it was not far from here that he schemed to break through the Pearlescent Reef and rescue his one true love. But…"

"But? But?" Sialeeds wondered, holding her breath.

"…But that is a story for tonight," she said with a smile.

Sialeeds twisted her face into a blatant pout, and crossed her arms in indignation.

Arshtat gave her sister a mysterious smile as she let her down onto the deck.

The restless girl had forgotten her consternation in moments.

**-Ferid-**

The wind ruffled Ferid's uniform as he climbed down the ratlines from the main topsail's yard, and he heaved a sigh of relief from the exertion as he leapt the last few feet onto the deck. The gentle breeze was merciful enough, but his shift was nearing its end and the wind had been fickle this morning, changing direction all too often.

Stretching his arms, he readjusted the sweaty leather straps that held his white vambraces in place on his forearms, and sat down against the railing. Looking up, he saw Georg approach and sit down by his side. The boy was sullen and glum beneath the eye-patch on the left side of his face, somehow naked without a sword at his side. Shouts from the sailors filled the air as the mainsail was hoisted up on its halyards, and Ferid spoke in a low voice, letting his eyes roam casually as he fiddled with a length of abandoned rope.

"Heard anything interesting?" he wondered, squinting against the sun.

"No. He's just doting on the passengers." Heeding a shout, Georg leaned over and loosened the knot of some running rigging, letting the line slide a foot in its block before retying the rope. "Especially the man," he added.

Ferid scratched the stubble on his chin and nodded. "Funny. The girls can't be their children; those features are far too disparate. Silver hair?"

"Are you talking about me?" Yahr said, sliding into view as he sat down and stretched his arms. The young man smiled mysteriously, as though hiding something.

Ferid smirked. "Find anything?"

Shaking his head, Yahr sighed. "Nothing, Lieutenant," he mumbled. "I went through the hold with a looking glass—pardon the ridiculous metaphor—and the way I see it, there's nothing down there that _shouldn't_ be there."

Grunting, Ferid nodded. "What's your take on the passengers?"

He shrugged, picking up the rope and pulling a small stretch taut, testing its strength. "Judging by the clothes and all that? Rich merchant's daughters out for a pleasure cruise with their bodyguards."

_My thoughts exactly. _"They boarded in Estrise."

"So they're Falenan," Yahr said.

"Right. Falenans don't like the sea. 'As deep as the Feitas' and all that."

"Not much of a boast," Georg said, smirking.

"Think they might be working with Serwid?" Ferid wondered.

Yahr frowned, and the look on his face was doubtful. "Why send the girls? Why all the subterfuge?"

Georg smirked. "Well, us?"

Yahr rolled his eyes. "We're the clever ones, here. Serwid's got no reason to be subtle. It's not like he's been, before. Besides, the elder sister…" He sighed wistfully. "I can't imagine she's involved in anything like that."

"Don't be stupid, boy," Ferid said. "What's so special about her, anyway?"

Yahr fixed him with a dead serious look. "Lieutenant, she makes my ropes go taut. All of them."

Georg muffled a laugh.

"Keep looking, Yahr. That boat last night… There's got to be something on the ship," Ferid said.

"Sure, Lieutenant."

"And don't get cocky. Anyone here could be a spy for Serwid and his partners."

"Right, Lieutenant."

Georg glanced to the side, and then looked at his dirty nails as he spoke. "We've got company."

Ferid stretched and looked portside. The little silver-haired girl was running towards them, arms outstretched in the breeze. Perhaps eight or nine years old, her enthusiasm made him smile. _Maybe Yahr is right. Just a pleasure cruise._ He looked past her to note that her three companions were approaching as well.

She came to a halt in front of them. "What are you doing?" she asked.

Ferid grinned. "I'm resting. You see those sails?" he wondered, pointing at the mainmast.

The girl's nod was filled with equal parts pride and curiousness.

"Well, people like me have to climb up those ropeways—they're called ratlines—and hang over those wooden beams—yards—to change the sails."

The girl gaped, framing her face with her hands against the sun as she stared at the mast's apex. "Isn't that dangerous?" she wondered.

"Sometimes," he said.

"Falrana," a woman's voice said, "It worries me when you run off like that."

The girl giggled and clasped her hands beneath her back as she turned around. "Sorry, sister," she said.

Ferid studied the four of them as the girl's companions approached. The two girls, the elder perhaps a few years older than Yahr and still little more than a child herself, though she carried herself with elegance, were dressed in fine, casual robes of white and yellow silks with voluminous sleeves; clothes that might have passed for travelers' garbs in the court of Obel. The others, a stern woman with black hair, bushy eyebrows and a face too broad for femininity, and a man with cropped brown hair and a broad nose, were dressed in plain brown and white wools; garments meant to facilitate swordsmanship. The swords at their hips corroborated this assessment.

Having boarded the _Raven's Revenge_ in Estrise, the group seemed preoccupied with keeping a low profile. The older woman still showed signs of seasickness, marking her a true land crab if he had ever seen one. Altogether, Ferid had found no evident cracks in their façade, but he could not help but feel that something about the group was awry.

"I am sorry," the young woman said. "My sister can be very inquisitive. I hope we have not disturbed your work."

Ferid rose to his feet along with Yahr, while Georg remained sitting, ignoring the conversation. Getting a close look at her for the first time, he understood what Yahr had been going on about, but found himself disagreeing. _She's too polished. Too fragile, and probably a useless brat anyway, like all rich girls. Still, that silver hair… and those big, soulful blue eyes… _He pushed the thoughts aside. He did not like 'elegant' girls. _She probably can't even swim._

"Don't worry about it. She's not bothering us," he said.

The girl—Falrana—laughed.

Yahr grinned stupidly as he cleared his throat. "The name's Yahr. This is Ferid," he said, pointing, "And the gloomy lad over there's Georg. Might I ask, err, what your name is, Milady?"

_Please stop embarrassing yourself._ Ferid struggled to keep his face straight.

"Of course," the young woman said. "My name is Alzhara. This is my sister, Falrana, and our companions, Harwan," she pointed to the man, "And Jumana." The woman. The two warriors nodded.

_Companions, eh? _'Jumana.' The name rang a bell, somehow. He tried to focus, to place it, but he could not. "It's an honor," he said, bowing his head. "That you would waste your time with us."

Falrana clung to Alzhara's skirts. Smiling, she pointed to Ferid. "Isn't he handsome, sister?" she asked. "Do you like him?"

Feeling a bit embarrassed, Ferid chuckled. Yahr glanced at him and pouted.

Alzhara's smile turned to a slight frown as she pushed her sister's hand down. "It is rude to point, Falrana, and also rude to ask such questions."

The girl nodded, but was laughing within moments, the chiding forgotten. "What's that?" she wondered, pointing at something near the bow as she began to run towards it.

Ferid was about to speak when he noticed that the slack line a few paces down the girl's path was about to be pulled taut.

"Watch out!" he exclaimed, stepping forward and reaching out to grab her shoulder.

Jumana knocked his arm away. She stepped forward to block his path with a snarl. _What is she doing?_

The line was pulled taut, and Falrana was tripped.

Falling onto the deck, she hit her head against the planks.

Alzhara ran over to her sister as the girl began to wail. Ferid stared at the flat-faced bodyguard, struggling to contain feelings of anger and disbelief. The woman was glancing at Falrana now, but kept her eyes on Ferid for the most part. He frowned, but only slightly. "Well, as you can see, I had something in mind," he said sarcastically.

Jumana did not seem fazed. "Keep your hands off of her," she said. "Or you'll regret it."

Ferid felt cold inside. _I'll regret it? You can kiss the sea, hag!_

"Jumana, back off," Alzhara said, nursing her sister's bruised head with her hands as she turned back. "Given the circumstances, that was uncalled for."

"But it's the…" Jumana began, but then seemed to catch herself. "Yes, Milady." She backed away.

"They are just boys, and seem harmless as well. You do not need to protect us from them," Alzhara said. Falrana was sniffling, but seemed to be recovering quickly.

Ferid could not help but glance at Georg, who sat wringing his hands as he tried to look both occupied and distant. _Harmless boys? Heh. Since when am _I_ a boy?_

"Quite right, Milady," Harwan said. He smiled, a gesture seemingly devoid of intent, "These boys couldn't hurt a fly." He caressed the hilt of his sword, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps overtly.

Growing steadily angrier, Ferid found it difficult to keep his temper under control. Yahr was glancing at him with an anxious look on his face, no doubt worried about this very fact. Drawing a deep breath, Ferid smiled. "That's right," he said, scratching his head sheepishly in his best imitation of a fool.

Alzhara seemed to sigh softly. "Forgive us," she said, inclining her head in the slightest of motions. Without another word, she turned and led her sister towards the doorway at the base of the sterncastle. The bodyguards followed close behind.

Halfway there, Jumana stopped in her tracks and turned to regard them.

'Stay away,' she mouthed.

**-Arshtat-**

The brass lantern swung on its hook in the ceiling as the ship rocked gently through the waves, casting shadows back and forth through the cabin. Sialeeds cuddled her pillow, eyes losing their focus as the energetic girl's behavior finally took its toll on her body. Even then, Arshtat was surprised at how easy it had been to coax her into sleeping. The girl was a chore to put to bed at night, and hopeless in the mornings; a condition that Arshtat believed would be ameliorated when her sister grew older. She had to ask Harwan what he had put in the girl's tea, she decided.

"Do you like him?" Sialeeds mumbled. "It's not rude to ask in private, is it…?"

Arshtat sighed, but smiled. "No, it is not rude. I do not like him, because he is a stranger, of whom I know nothing."

"Can't strangers like each other…?" Sialeeds asked.

Leaning forward, Arshtat caressed the girl's hair and spoke in a soft voice. "If they come to know each other, yes."

"But you said you loved me when I was born, and you didn't know me then…"

Arshtat stifled a laugh. "But I did know you. I knew all you were, _then_. These people have histories, pasts I do not know." She stroked Sialeeds' ear gently, causing the girl to giggle against her pillow.

"You have asked these questions often, of late. Is there a reason?" Arshtat asked.

Sialeeds' voice was fading as she spoke. "Mother is always saying… Sister needs to marry. So I thought… Sister needs to find someone she likes…"

Uneasy by the girl's candidness, Arshtat took shallow breaths as she watched her sister. She had fallen asleep, it seemed. _Would that I had her honesty with my own feelings. If Mother has her way… The Sacred Games… Well, I am a Princess; I always knew that I had to marry one day, for the sake of our nation. But… there still might be a way to talk Mother out of it. There are other ways I can serve Falena; as an ambassador to foreign lands, for instance. I could…_ She cut off the train of thought. Those hopes and dreams were too bright, too devastating.

Touching her fingers to Sialeeds' warm cheek, she listened to her sister's breathing as she tucked her in beneath the sheets. Then she stood up, and walked over to the door and out into the night.

Outside, the bright silver moon lit the night as clouds drifted through the skies. The _Raven's Revenge _sailed ever on through the darkness, manned by a skeleton crew that clambered through the rigging in near silence. She hung against the railing and watched the ship cut through dark blue waters, feeling the breeze caress her skin beneath her clothes. _At this moment, I am free._

The sailors' silence robbed her of her favorite pastime of listening in to their conversations, trying to pick up phrases and terms and learn something of naval traditions in addition to the culture of the Island Nations. Listening without seeming to pay attention was a skill she had found useful even as a child, and it had given her a much better understanding of others. She had picked up some rather inappropriate comments in the process, spoken when they thought her oblivious, but she had learned to ignore such lewd remarks years ago. It could be ignored, as long as it was not said to her face.

The planks creaked with footsteps as Jumana approached and stood at her side. She looked tired, and sickly, but tried to hide these facts with a staunch demeanor and a stern look. Seeing her made Arshtat feel a renewed sense of disappointment: Her bodyguard's behavior had driven a wedge between her and the ship's crew, making further socializing impossible. Listening was all good and well, but she was eager to ask questions; to fill the blanks where what she heard seemed to make no sense. Why was the topsail the midmost of the mast's three sails? What was the difference between shrouds and stays? Was there significance to the term 'sterncastle?' She had endless questions, and wanted answers.

"Trouble sleeping, Princess?" Jumana whispered.

Arshtat shook her head. "I like to feel the breeze at night."

Jumana tensed for a moment, and then sighed. "I… beg your forgiveness for what happened, Princess. My only concern is your well-being."

Placing a hand on Jumana's gloved fist, Arshtat smiled. "I know."

Boots sounded on the deck as several people approached.

"I hate to interrupt a solemn moment," Captain Serwid said merrily, his voice lilting as he approached with three marines at his side. The fat man's plump face, framed by a forked and braided beard, was split in a grin, and his hands were clasped behind his back. He rose up and down on his toes as he looked at them. The marines were garbed in the distinctive Federation Fleet uniform in white with highlights of blue and red, cinched tight at the waist by a leather sash. Their faces were blank, and their limbs tense.

"Is something amiss, Captain?" Arshtat wondered.

"Not in particular," the man said. He settled down, moving one arm to his waist while stroking his bushy brown beard with the other. "It's just that, well, Lady Alzhara, the fee you paid upon boarding is regrettably insufficient for further travel." Serwid began to speak more quickly as he grew more excited.

Arshtat quirked an eyebrow as she motioned for Jumana to remain still. She did not need to glance at her bodyguard to know that she was quite nearly growling. _Does Harwan linger in his cabin? _The moon's light paled against the glare of the lanterns hung from the sterncastle's carved railing, and the men's shadows danced about the deck, chaotic motion contrasting against their stillness.

"I do not understand," Arshtat said. "You named a price for this cruise when we boarded in Estrise, and I have paid this price."

"True, true…" Serwid said, nodding vigorously. "But it's a lie for a lie, you see?"

"Lies?"

Serwid hesitated, and the smile on his face was a mocking impression of genuine warmth. "It would have such a wonderful impact if I were to use your _real _name now, wouldn't it? But I've come to prefer your false name. Isn't that funny, Arshtat? How a lie can become preferable to the truth…" He chuckled. At his side, the marines remained motionless, but their hands were at the swords at their hips.

Arshtat tasted ashes. _Where is Harwan?_ "I had no intentions of deluding you, Captain. But, as I am sure you understand—"

"I understand, of course. You have many enemies, and there are many who would seek to take advantage of a situation like his." His eyes glimmered with mirth. "Men of ill repute… thieves, and scoundrels… and savvy businessmen like me."

Arshtat's blood boiled. She felt her cheeks burn with anger.

Jumana pushed Arshtat aside as she stepped forward. "I'll allow no threats, dog. If you want her, you'll have to carve a path through me, first."

The marines fanned out before Serwid, hands on hilts as they took up menacing positions.

_Calm, now. This is not the time for slinging threats. He has the upper hand, without a doubt. _Arshtat pushed her anger aside. _Vultures!_ Well, she tried to. "I understand, Captain. I am sure a satisfactory solution can be worked out that does not include violence. No flesh broken, no feathers ruffled?" _Then, when Sialeeds is safely home, we will hunt you down and feed you to the lions._ Though she seethed inside, she wore a practiced smile.

Serwid chuckled. "Well…"

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Harwan wondered.

The wooden stairs creaked as the Queen's Knight climbed down from the quarterdeck.

Relief flooded Arshtat's mind. Her smile was tight-lipped as Harwan strolled up to Jumana's side, hand clutching the hilt of his sword. The marines gave each other hesitant looks, but Captain Serwid kept his eyes on Harwan and his face was unreadable as he gauged the knight.

Arshtat remained uneasy. Beneath the shadows, the ship belonged to Captain Serwid, and there was no telling what traps and snares he might have set. He had brought three marines, but more were sleeping in the bunks below deck. Had he brought his loyalists? How many would support this outrageous act of piracy? These men were Federation Fleet marines! _Mother will be furious when she hears of this._ For now, she was at a disadvantage, but there was always illusion.

She drew herself up. "Captain Serwid. From my perspective, your position is unfavorable. There are four of you and three of us, yet my companions are Queen's Knights of Falena; more than a match for your three men… regardless of their _dedication_ to the Federation Fleet." She leveled a withering glare at the marines. "And I am trained to fight as well… Are you?"

To her surprise, Serwid chuckled.

She frowned.

"You're right, but from _my_ perspective, your conclusion is flawed."

"And why is that?"

"Because," Serwid said, "I know something you do not."

Arshtat felt cold. _What? _She wanted to retort, but needed to think. She never got the time.

Harwan drew his sword and slashed in a single motion.

Jumana cried out in pain. She clutched a wounded arm as she drew her sword.

"Harwan?" Arshtat gasped as Jumana pushed her aside.

The woman raised her sword. "Traitorous dog!" she snarled.

Serwid and his men kept their distance as Harwan circled back and forth. He held his sword in both hands and pointed the blade at Jumana. His features were tense, and his eyes cold.

Light flickered, and the shadows danced as Arshtat held her breath. She fingered the hilt of a hidden dagger, taking tiny steps she hoped would go unnoticed.

Jumana lunged, thrusting for Harwan's chest.

He retreated and slapped the thrust aside. Advancing, he slashed from side to side. Jumana grunted as she parried, driven back. "Why?" she growled.

Harwan spoke with the blade. His feints grew elaborate as he jabbed. Sidestepping a wild thrust, he launched a backhand slash.

Jumana crouched and raised her sword. Their blades clashed, and she pushed forward. Matching her strength, Harwan rose and slammed his foot into her stomach. She fell back, slammed into the railing, and sagged to the side.

Harwan pressed the attack.

Arshtat stepped forward and grabbed his arm. He snarled, jolting free with a fist to her cheek.

She fell down.

"I'll kill you!" Jumana screamed.

Harwan cried out in surprise. Arshtat's vision swam.

She heard steel cut through flesh, and struggled to see.

Rising to her feet, Arshtat saw Jumana fall onto the deck, bleeding from both arms. She heard herself call her name in vain as Harwan stood over her, panting. His breeches were stained with blood around his knee, and he stamped his hale leg down upon Jumana's wrist and turned to face Arshtat.

"Why, Harwan?" she demanded. She was furious, and made no effort to hide it.

He spat on Jumana's back. The knight did not move where she lay, and Arshtat wondered if she were dead. She felt cold inside, despite the rage.

"I'm sick of those scheming bitches," he said. "The minute the old one topples, those sisters are going to be at each others' throats, tooth and nail. Galleon has his duty, and Rafour his faith, but _I'm_ not sticking around to fight in a succession war!"

Arshtat paled. "It will not come to that," she said. The words felt hollow, though. Did she believe that? "Either way," she said, near tears for frustration and anger, "You're going to hang for this."

Harwan snorted. "Not me." He wiggled his foot on Jumana's arm. "The Queen will be very upset when she learns that New Armes has struck against Falena in so cowardly a way. Especially since one of the Queen's Knights turned out a spy for her people."

Arshtat's face contorted in rage. "No one will believe such nonsense!" _Jumana has proven her loyalty to Falena!_ "What do you hope to accomplish?"

Serwid chuckled. "Gold, girl. Gold."

Harwan grimaced. "I prefer to think of it as freedom, Captain."

"You mean to ransom us?" Arshtat asked.

"Something like that," Harwan said. Two of the marines began to drag away Jumana's body as he raised his sword to caress her neck with the blade. Though barely touching, the edge drew blood. Arshtat tensed, but fought the urge to move. She stared back at him, and did not flinch.

"I assure you, Harwan; you _will _hang for this."

Harwan frowned. "Don't take it so personally. It's just business."

Somehow, she managed to remain silent as outrage set her mind afire. Keeping her features emotionless was a struggle. Harwan stared at her, watchful but somehow distant as though he considered something. He reached for her waist.

"Touch me," Arshtat snarled, "And one of us will die." Her voice was tense, and murderous.

Harwan froze with a look of surprise on his face. His hand, so close to hers, seemed to quiver with anticipation, and the thought was enough to cause revulsion. He stepped back, and sighed. "Yes, you _would_ do that, wouldn't you? It's a pity you turned out to be such a frigid little thing. I'd hoped it would be possible to coax you to spread your legs when you grew up. I'll miss trying to catch a glimpse of you when you bathe." With a chuckle, he swiveled and walked away.

Arshtat found herself laughing, releasing her frustration and anger the only way she could accept. Her heart was racing, and she found that the haze of emotion made it difficult to concentrate. It took great effort to calm down, but she managed. Somehow. She hid her emotions behind a meaningless smile, and remained silent. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her lose her composure. _Their plan is flawed. If I hold my tongue now, I can turn them against each other later. This is a minor setback. A trivial test. _She tried to tell herself that.

Inside, she wanted to cry. _By the Sun Rune's light, Jumana had better live, or I will tear them apart. No, that is not contingent on her health. I will do it anyway._

Not before she was alone and locked inside her cabin did she let the façade fall.

**-Yahr-**

Beneath the shadows, Yahr clung to the railing's carved pins on the starboard edge of the sterncastle as he watched the events unfurl on the moonlit deck. An endless string of curses and the most powerful oaths he could muster flew through his mind as he clutched his handholds, and his tense muscles ached in tune with the beating of his heart. He had been forced to hide at a moment's notice, and his hiding place left much to be desired. He dared not move a muscle, for fear of being detected.

Biding his time, he focused not only on the voices but also the sounds beneath; the ruffle of sails in the wind, the creaking of planks underfoot, and the hiss of blades against sheaths. The slightest noise could give away something left unsaid or reveal something important, making this horrendous ordeal more worthwhile. The wind clawed at his clothes, fighting for his attention as his fingers throbbed with strain, numb against the wood, but he pushed the sensations aside. He watched, and listened.

When the voices and footsteps faded away for good, he barely had the strength to hoist himself onto the deck.

**-Ferid-**

The ship's hull groaned like a sleeping giant as planks shifted, moaning in grim concert as they ground against each other. The lantern's light flickered, painting the alcove in animated shadows against the darkness and barely illuminating the worn trays stacked upon the surface of the table, its legs nailed into the floor of the crew quarters.

Ferid lounged on the splintered bench, hands clasped on his forehead as he reflected on things. All three of them were huddled close together, seated or splayed out in a lazy formation that gave an image of weariness; of near sleep. Certainly not three people in the midst of plotting.

"…And the man was in on it?" he asked.

"Right." Yahr said. He lay on his side with his head propped up on his elbow and his eyes resting. A casual observer might think his eyes closed, but that was half the truth at best, and the wrong half besides. Georg sat on the floor with his back leaned against the bench, legs crossed and arms folded. _His_ eyes might have been truly closed. Maybe.

"That leaves the question of 'who is she?'" Ferid mumbled.

"It seemed like they knew her. Like she'd been hiding her true identity. I didn't catch her real name, if they said it."

"If that's true, then she's got to be important to someone."

"I still say she's a merchant's daughter. Know any Falenan tycoons?"

Ferid rolled over on his stomach. "No."

Georg sighed, letting his head slide against the wood. "What do we do?"

"This is a problem."

Yahr stretched out his arms and yawned. "Because we have bigger fish to fry than Serwid, right. So…"

A burst of raucous laughter emanated from the other side of the bulkhead, accompanied by a rhythmic beat of hands against wood as a sailors' song climaxed in a festive mood. Ferid shrugged. "So, if we fire cannons and ram this head on to spring these girls, we'll give up the real prize. Which, unfortunately, also happens to be our job." _A ransom can be a decent enough experience, provided the right middle hands are used. But with the wrong middle hands… And then there's the matter of Serwid's contact with slavers. This is a fine net I've found myself sleeping in._

"I hate my job," Yahr lamented in a dramatic voice.

"No you don't," Georg scoffed. "And knowing the Lieutenant, this job's a sunken ship by now."

Ferid opened wide his left eye. "What's that supposed to mean?" _But damn it, he knows me by now. They both do. _Georg shrugged. Nothing more. It was a difficult decision to make, because what he wanted to do would go against what he needed to do. But then, which was which? The truth was that what he _wanted_ to do was to circle the reefs and take the easy route. What he _needed_ to do was…

It was not such a difficult decision, after all. Being honest with himself… that was the difficult part. They were smiling at him. The smug bastards.

"To the deep with it all!" he cursed. "Make preparations."

**-Arshtat-**

Mist had risen in the early predawn, hiding the slowly coloring sky behind a gray veil of turgid miasma. The sun would rise before the hour to begin its work of dispersing the fog, but dawn was not here yet. In the interim, the ship plowed ever on as its crew grew in the morning hours, and the sounds of sailors hard at work seemed almost surreal in the mist; as if they were sailing through a void outside of which nothing existing but the hopes and memories of a host of mariners. Not fears—fears were within. It was as if nothing had happened. And yet, Arshtat felt that everything had changed—that things _should_ be different.

The marines that fetched her from her cabin had the audacity to leer openly, but as a balance, they seemed wary of her. Perhaps they had taken her threat to heart. She was prodded rather than pushed, cajoled rather than forced across the deck as she walked towards the captain's cabin, and she held her head high, pretending for all the world that she were out for a stroll, and not someone's hostage.

Shown inside, she found the captain's quarters lavish, for a ship. The walls were lined with carved mahogany wardrobes and cabinets while the middle of the floor was dominated by several small tables slung together into a larger pattern of surfaces. Half a dozen chairs were made available, each one set with a thick cushion upon which flowery motifs had been embroidered, and in the corner stood a four-post bed with a seemingly redundant wooden canopy that nearly touched the ceiling. The elegant decoration was somewhat marred by the coarse iron spikes that had been driven into the furniture in order to hold it steady. The cabinets vibrated with the ship's capricious motions, and the sound of clinking glass and porcelain could be heard from within.

Captain Serwid made an effort to rise from his seat, but seemed to change his mind and sat his fat bulk back down. "Princess Arshtat. How nice of you to join me this fine morning." Meeting her cool gaze, he laughed. "Well, one can pretend, yes? Have a seat."

_Yes, one can at that._ "Gracious of you," she said, walking over to stand at the side of the chair closest to the door. From there, the position of the tables would be ideal, providing a quick route across the room if necessary. She remained standing, silent and deliberate, and for a moment Serwid seemed perplexed. It took a few seconds before he caught her intention and motioned for one of the attendant marines to pull up her chair for her.

Sitting down, Arshtat spared the slightest of curt nods for the discomfited marine, and he backed off. _One can pretend, indeed._ "He has left this ship, has he not?"

Serwid quickly hid his surprise. He chuckled, fiddling with the contents of a tin case on the table before him. Footsteps filled the room as the three marines arranged themselves around her. With a casual glance, she confirmed their positions. This would be difficult.

"You're perceptive. Or was that… a measured guess?" he asked.

_Some of both. _Like so many times in her life, she forced a false smile. "Perception. Despite lingering in my cabin, I am neither blind nor deaf." It was true, after a fashion. Through the porthole window she had seen a boat leave the _Raven's Revenge_, and the faint voices she had managed to snap up through the door seemed to confirm that the boat would be making a longer journey. Calm as she felt now that she was playing her game, one thing ate at her.

"Did the condemned bring my sister with him?"

Serwid started, and frowned. "You're awfully confident."

_I am glad one of us feels that way. _"Will you answer my question, Captain Serwid?"

"No."

"No, relating to what…?"

"He didn't."

Arshtat did her best to mask her relief as she filled her lungs with sweet air. The circumstances seemed to be arranged in perfect harmony. It was 'time to press the attack' as her father would put it. "I am sure you see the folly in this plan, Captain Serwid," she said.

He rubbed the braids of his beard as he leaned in on the table. He appeared amused, more than anything. Amused!

"Please explain the folly, Princess."

"As soon as we come into contact with Falena, through, for instance, a completed ransom, we will tell the truth, and you will be hunted by the world's most powerful nation. You will have our undivided attention, I assure you." _Are there more powerful nations in this world? Perhaps. Perhaps not. I should like to find out, some day._

"Once again, Princess, your conclusion is no good."

"Enlighten me."

"Well," Serwid said, "Your sister hasn't seen anything. When she wakes up, Harwan and I will be long gone."

Arshtat tensed. "Then you intend to have me killed? To what end?"

Serwid laughed, clapping the lid of the tin case shut. "Nothing so brutal, Princess. Oh, we'll ransom you for sure. First we ransom your sister, and after a successful transaction, beneficial to all, we will repeat the procedure for you. Only… that transaction will not be completed. You see, despite what you may think us capable of, I think you'll soon realize that we're not quite as daft as you had hoped. As for you, I'll take you up north. I know some slavers who will pay a queen's ransom," his eyes gleamed, "For a… woman of your caliber."

For a moment, Arshtat sat stunned. As he had surmised, she had hoped that he would be daft enough not to have thought this plot through, but she found now that her capacity for depravity was lacking, putting her at a disadvantage in these games of the mind. _I need to buy myself time to think._

"What about my bodyguard?" she asked.

"She's well enough," Serwid said. "We've tossed her in the hold, but Harwan wants her alive, so don't worry." Another wave of relief, with anger in its wake. The smile on his face seemed meant to be reassuring, of all things!

"Would you like some tea?" he asked.

_There will be no chance of turning this foul pirate to my side, then._ She felt a surge of despair, but managed to push it down, to lock away those darkly inviting thoughts of surrender in the deepest portions of her mind. For her sister, she could be brave.

Someone had to be.

"Yes," she said.

**-Ferid-**

The midnight veil of the night would have been preferable; a shield to mask their actions and intentions as they hurried through the necessary motions, but circumstances had forced them to wait, and one more day would be too much. As luck would have it, the thick fog that had rolled in before dawn made a decent substitute for the darkness.

They had found no opportunity during the night to retrieve their weapons, so thoroughly hidden in the lower decks, and only now would Georg be making his way back up with their swords. Until then, they waited.

Ferid concentrated on his breath, keeping it steady as he worked in order to remain casual. It was, he realized, an illusion of relaxation at best, but he needed to focus on something. As for the operation, he foresaw no greater difficulties as long as everything went according to plan, but the moments before the culmination of a somewhat violent plan always felt eerie, and the fog added a strange sort of stillness to the ambience, as though a tempest had drawn its first breath, only to hold it. He was still waiting for the dice to fall.

Yahr whistled in a low tone as he worked, untying the knots that held the cloth together around the boat. Together, they hurried to make the final preparations for their escape, hiding their efforts in plain sight with the hopes that none of the sailors or marines present on deck would take a moment to consider exactly _why_ they were doing it. _Thank the runes for the fog._

"Lieutenant," Yahr mumbled, cocking his head in a seemingly casual manner that nonetheless told Ferid that someone was approaching from behind. Stretching his arms, he turned on his heel and walked forward.

…Bumping into the first mate, Urwhal.

Ferid gave a start, seeming to falter under the glare of the man. "T-Terribly sorry, sir," he stammered. _Where's Georg? He should be here by now. Did he get caught?_ He bowed and scraped, scratching his head as he glanced unnoticed to the sides, scanning for incoming marines. The man was alone. _No, he can't have gotten caught._

Urwhal frowned. "What's wrong with you, lad? You dance between competence and useless stuttering like some… well, dancer!"

_Ah, yes. Urwhal's famous hammer-like wit._ "Sorry, sir."

"Well, what's this, then? What are you doing?"

"Captain's orders, Sir," Ferid said. He glanced back to ascertain that Yahr kept working, unperturbed by the conversation. Considering the situation, he weighed his options.

"I've heard none of the sort! I'll speak with the Captain of this," Urwhal said, He turned to leave.

Ferid cursed inwardly. "Sir, look at this first!" he said.

"What is it, lad?" the man said, turning back with a disgruntled look on his furrowed face.

Ferid gestured him towards the boat. He made a quick hand sign to Yahr, and saw the man raise a single finger in return.

"Sir, you need to see this…" Ferid mumbled, pointing into the uncovered boat. He looked round, and saw a thick belt of fog sweep in across the deck. No one was watching.

Urwhal approached with a suspicious look on his face. His eyes turned to the boat as he stepped up between the two of them.

Yahr grabbed the man's arms from behind. He groaned.

Ferid lurched into motion, slamming his knee into Urwhal's groin. A tortured moan, and he doubled over in pain. An overhand chop, and Ferid's hand slammed into the man's neck from behind.

Urwhal sagged against the boat. Without a word, the two of them hauled his limp body over the gunwale and dropped him within. Yahr grimaced and slung a length of cloth over the unconscious man.

"We're committed, now," Ferid said with a shrug.

"Nothing to it, Lieutenant…"

Through the mist came a shout from above. "Ship ahoy! Starboard side!"

Suddenly the deck came alive with motion.

_Where in the bloody sea is Georg?_

**-Arshtat-**

The conversation ended as shouts were heard from the porthole and through the thick door. Moments later loud knocks on the door were heard.

Arshtat sipped her citrus tea with a calm that belied the storm inside as she gauged Serwid's reaction. The captain let his irritation show. Slapping his palms against the table, he shouted: "Enter!"

Two marines ran into the cabin as the door was yanked open.

Serwid forestalled them, standing up in his seat so that the chair hit the floor with a thud. "What's all this commotion about?" he asked.

Arshtat looked at the marine at her side. He was tense, watching the newcomers with great interest and concern while he fidgeted in his position. At his hip hung an iron ring from which a dozen sturdy keys and a large cork sphere dangled.

"Captain," one of the newcomers said, "There's a ship to starboard side, approaching."

Arshtat listened with half an ear as she emptied her cup. Her heart raced. Facing the marine at her side, she quirked an eyebrow and cleared her throat. The marine looked at her.

"What kind of ship? Federation Fleet?" Serwid wondered.

She pushed her cup and its saucer towards the marine with the faintest of gestures, and he started, gaping for a moment before he nodded. Arshtat forced a small, emotionless smile.

"No, sir, it's not one of ours," the messenger said.

Leaning over the table, the attendant marine grabbed the fine porcelain kettle and lifted it into his hands. Serwid spared him a glance but quickly dismissed the motion as unimportant.

"What, then?"

Arshtat watched in silence as the man poured her tea, working slowly and focusing on the cup in order to adjust for the ship's tossing and his own distracted mind. He kept glancing at Serwid and the messengers.

"We're not sure yet, sir. The fog is too thick. It's a lateen rig, though."

Arshtat shifted slightly to adjust her seat. She slid her hand into her sleeve and slowly pulled loose a curved knife from its sheath. Keeping her eyes on the attendant marine, she began to move the knife into position.

Serwid cursed. "Whatever it is, it's not good, and the wind isn't on our side. Adjust course thirty degrees larboard and hoist the topgallants. We'll try to outrun them if we can."

Arshtat adjusted her skirts, quickly reaching out without looking to place her knife against the leather strip that held the marine's key ring in place. Carefully, shielding her hand with her body, she began to saw at the leather.

The cup was filling.

"Aye aye, Captain!" the men said, and one of them turned to leave the room at once. The last man lingered for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak.

The leather gave way, and the ring fell. Arshtat leaned down to catch it—

The cup was filled, and the marine moved.

The iron ring clattered against the ground.

"What?" Serwid exclaimed. Then he shouted: "Grab her!"

All at once, the marines were upon her.

**-Ferid-**

Ferid had watched as the marines stormed into the captain's cabin, and now waited, uncertainty gnawing at his mind. What was going on in there? Was the woman in danger? There were too many unknown factors for his taste. The unknown vessel was closing the gap, making deft use of its lateen rig to cruise through the shifting winds even as their own sails struggled to maintain cruising speed on their northward destination.

He was still waiting for Georg to return with his sword when one of the marines ran back out and began to shout orders to the helmsman. The door was left open, and Ferid began to stroll towards it.

"Grab her!" a murderous voice barked from within.

Cursing aloud, Ferid broke into a run. He pushed the marine away and dashed into the cabin.

Alzhara was backing up against the wall with a curved knife in her hand as four marines converged on her from both sides of the gathered tables. She looked frightened, but determined. She would last a few seconds, at most.

Serwid had risen from his seat and now stabbed his arm at the air, pointing at Alzhara. His face turned to Ferid. He shouted.

Two of the marines spun around. Ferid closed the distance and slung out his leg, tripping the first man. Ferid grabbed his arm as he stumbled forward, and brought his other hand down in a numbing chop against his wrist. The man gasped, and dropped his sword. Ferid caught the hilt before the weapon hit the floor. In the same motion, he slammed it into the man's jaw. He stepped back as the marine sagged down.

"Get him!" one of them shouted. Ignoring Alzhara, the remaining two men began to flank him as the closer man attacked. He lunged, and Ferid sidestepped. He raised his sword and slashed, opening the man's throat.

Twisting to the side, Ferid ignored the slumping man and took up a defensive position. He glanced at Alzhara, who stood shocked against the wall, clutching her weapon. Watching him, she gaped.

Serwid hissed. "Frozen seas, it's you!" His voice rose with each word. "Egan, you meddling little runt!"

Ferid grunted, keeping his eyes on the approaching marines as he circled a chair. "So you _do _remember me. It was so easy sneaking onto your ship, I thought you'd forgotten." He allowed himself a small smirk, keeping his concentration. The marines approached him from both sides.

Serwid fumed. "How could I forget! Marines, I want this man maimed!"

Smiling, Ferid backed up. He heard footsteps.

"Behind you!" Alzhara said.

Ferid spun and backed into the corner just as a sword cut through the air. A marine charged through the doorway with a belated bellow. They were upon him.

From his left, a marine stabbed his sword. Ferid parried the weapon and stepped in to counter-thrust. Seeing steel flash, he diverted his attack to parry an attack from the right.

Together, the three marines drove him back. Their swords flashed as he parried, dodged and toppled chairs in their paths. _Three at once, without a good bottleneck. This doesn't look good._ Sweat beaded on his forehead. His fingers numbed against his hilt as he parried their insistent attacks.

"Kill him! Kill him!" Serwid bellowed.

A sword flashed past his defenses. He pulled back his sword, pushed the blade aside, and stumbled. Staggering back, he bumped into the wall and sagged down. He caught his balance, but it was too late.

He heard a muffled cry. Serwid went silent.

"Stop!" Alzhara shouted.

The marines halted their attack, pointing their swords at Ferid. Past them, Alzhara stood in the corner of the room, trapping the fat captain with a knife pointed at his throat. His eyes were wide with fear and his face ruddy and sweaty. He tried to fidget, but looked too frightened to make a move.

"Back off, or I _will _slit his throat for the sheer satisfaction of it," she said.

Ferid exhaled.

**-Georg-**

The _Raven's Revenge _was in the grip of confusion. Sailors ran aft and fore like milling bilge rats as Georg padded towards the sterncastle, and marines were spilling onto deck from hatchways and stairs, donning their weapons on the fly.

Cradled beneath his arm, Georg carried a wrap of gray cloth draping and obscuring four unsheathed swords of varying style, and his pulse raced with excitement as he felt his blade so close, its hilt jabbing into his waist as he ran. He shifted his grip as he passed the mast.

Someone shouted his name, and he looked around to see Yahr run towards him.

Followed by a pair of marines.

Georg gaped. _What did the fool do?_ Cursing, he threw the bundle onto the deck with a clatter of steel and dropped to his knees to tear at the cloth. He ignored the knots, opting to rip the strings from the bundle and unfolding the weapons in haste. He glanced up more than once as he worked, gauging the marines' distance. There was still time.

Someone bumped into him, and a wave of fear ran through him. When he glanced up, the sailor was already halfway across the deck.

Drawing a deep breath, Georg separated two folds of cloth and pulled a Twin-type shortsword from the bundle. Leaving its companion sword in the cloth, he tossed the weapon across the deck so that it slid towards Yahr.

The young man dove onto the planks and scrambled to reach the weapon. Grasping the hilt, he rose to his feet and turned just in time to parry a vicious slash.

"Thanks!" he shouted. Equal parts relief and fear.

The second marine was coming right for Georg. Working feverishly, he blocked out the sounds of clashing metal as he concentrated on the cloth and its contents. The strings and folds of the bundle held his sword trapped, and he had to pull it from its hiding place in leaps and bounds. Pulling it free, he cut his hand on the blade. He cursed, but ignored the shallow wound. Blood dripped on the leather-wrapped hilt as he drew his sword clear. He pulled the blade back against his hip.

The marine bellowed as he approached, sword held high. Feigning ignorance, Georg remained on his knees and let his wide eyes roam. Yahr's duel produced a background din of steel on steel. The marine closed the distance. Five yards. Three yards, then two yards. The marine raised his sword overhead.

Georg leaned in and slashed. From lower left to upper right, his blade cut through the marine's vest and tore a bloody path across his torso. His scream got stuck in his throat as he coughed blood. And slumped over.

"No!" someone shouted.

Steel sank into flesh, and someone moaned in pain. Georg turned to see Yahr pull his blade from the marine's stomach. Yahr, with a frenzied look, was meeting the eyes of the marine. They were filled with disbelief. The man sagged down against Yahr and fell onto the deck. He turned to Georg, and calmed.

There was a great deal of activity on deck as sailors scrambled across the ratlines and through the rigging in a desperate attempt to prepare the ship to outrun the approaching vessel, but the effort seemed vain to Georg, as the unknown lateen rig was drawing ever closer. Still, even the marines who ran past in small groups ignored the two of them.

Georg hesitated. He drew a deep breath as the weight of the sword in his hands sparked a frisson of excitement that washed through his body and caused his hands to tingle.

"Where's the Lieutenant?" he asked.

"The damn fool ran right in!" Yahr said as he grabbed the sprawled cloth and pulled the two remaining weapons from it; the remaining Twin shortsword and Ferid's longsword.

_What?_ "I'm going in." He stumbled over something. Looking down, he saw the bloody corpse of the man he had killed. He watched the dead eyes stare at the sky, and froze for a moment. _It will come, later._

For now, he felt nothing.

He ran.

**-Arshtat-**

Arshtat gripped the knife in her hand with every ounce of her strength, worried that her shaking hands would fail her if she relaxed even for a second. With one hand, she held Serwid's arm while the edge of her knife hovered an inch from his throat. _By all the runes, I hope he does not try to break free._ She confirmed with a glance that the iron key ring was still lying where it had fallen on the floor.

The sailor—Ferid—looked wary as he pushed past the frozen marines and walked up to her side. Without a word, he tore Serwid from her hands and twisted his grip on the sword he had stolen to push the edge against the captain's throat.

"You'll regret this, you damned little—"

"Shut up," Ferid said, sliding the steel edge against Serwid's skin. The captain swallowed, and remained silent.

Backing off, Arshtat caressed the hilt of the knife. She spared a glance at the marines, but fastened her eyes on Ferid. Despite being glad to have the captain out of her hands, she felt a dash of irritation at his handling of the matter. The unlit lantern that hung from the ceiling swayed as the ship turned leeward to catch the northwestern breeze. She hesitated, uncertain about how to handle the tense situation. Arshtat felt staggered and overwhelmed, as though she were rocking back and forth in an uncontrolled vessel driven by the storm. She stared at the young man, but found his actions difficult to believe. Having talked briefly with this man on deck, she had all but forgotten him, presuming him a common sailor with no particular skills or weight.

To see him with a sword was astonishing. He had fought like a lion, betraying no touch of doubt even outnumbered as he was against experienced marines with his back against the wall. In the end, it had taken three men hounding his flanks to force him into a corner and break his guard. She could not help but wonder how he would have fared, had she not acted. He had seemed beaten, but she was not so sure. She had seen many skilled fighters in her time, and somehow she doubted that the marines would have come out of that exchange without being bloodied, however stacked against him the odds were.

Shaking her head, Arshtat frowned. She had to give voice to her bewilderment. "Who are you?" she asked.

"He's a damn little—"

The captain groaned as Ferid punched his kidney.

Ferid shrugged. "Just a harmless boy," he said.

_A petulant answer. Well, this is not the time._ "I trust you are leaving this ship?"

"That's a great idea," he said. He began to push Serwid towards the doorway, glaring at he marines as he passed. They shrank back against the wall and circled the table away from him, still with their hands held aloft to show their peaceful intentions.

"Where are you taking?" Serwid asked.

Ferid ignored his question. A great clamor spilled into the cabin through the partially ajar door; shouts from the deck hands and a cacophony of other voices and noises that intensified as Ferid kicked the door wide open. Arshtat gasped.

A swordsman with a blood-stained longsword stood in the doorway.

"Georg," Ferid said, exhaling. "Don't scare me."

The boy relaxed, but gave no reply beyond a casual shrug as he pushed his way past the fat captain to examine the cabin and the bodies on the floor. He was followed by the other young man, Yahr, and while Georg eyed her with suspicion, Yahr had something else entirely in his eyes.

Arshtat pretended that she did not see their looks. "You!" she said, pointing to one of the marines. "Fetch the key ring on the floor, and then toss it to me across the table. Be sure to—"

"Make it slow," Ferid said. The marine hesitated.

Arshtat frowned at the swordsman. "Yes, I was just about to say that." She nodded at the marine, and he knelt down, watching Ferid as he grabbed the key ring. Somehow, this annoyed her.

Standing up, the marine tossed the key ring onto the table. It slid against the surface and was about to fall off when Arshtat scooped it up in her hands. She wasted no time.

Ferid stopped her in the doorway, holding Captain Serwid as a shield. The fat man was fuming, grinding his teeth in anger.

"Where are you going?" Ferid wondered.

"To my sister," Arshtat said. She met his eyes and did not flinch even under his stern scrutiny. She had seen worse.

"Alright, let's hurry," he said.

Georg was first through the doorway, blazing the trail. Outside, Arshtat found that the fog was slowly dispersing as the sun began to peek out from behind a band of hidden silver clouds, spreading its bright warmth across the deck. The sun's appearance struck her as a good omen. The breeze remained a minor thing, a wyrmling's breath against the sails, and the _Raven's Revenge_ crawled across the waves.

On the starboard side, Arshtat saw for the first time the source of the commotion: A ship approaching through the fog. If she was not mistaken, it was drawing closer despite the best efforts of the hectic crew. Sailors and marines were running all over the deck, gathering in groups and awaiting the inevitable outcome.

Yahr seemed to be thinking the same thing. "We won't be able to outrun it," he said.

"We'll leave right away," Ferid said.

Arshtat shook her head. "No. Not yet." Ferid's features hardened, and his mouth opened. She did not give him time to speak. She ran towards Sialeeds' cabin.

On the way, she began to hear voices in the fog; shouts from the other ship, too distant to decipher.

Three arrows embedded themselves in the hull, hitting just around the gunwale. Arshtat ducked down and gasped for air, but forced the fear down as she continued towards the cabin.

"We've got to hurry!" Yahr shouted. He was glancing every way as he ran, but Arshtat did not concern herself with them. Ferid followed at a measured pace, keeping Captain Serwid snugly in the crook of his arm.

"Release me!" the captain growled. "You need me to survive!"

"No," Ferid said.

Arshtat barely heard their voices above the din. Her mind was fraught with worry, and her heart struggled to keep up with the pace of her thoughts as she considered the situation she had landed in and the options she had left. Reaching the door to Sialeeds' cabin, she fumbled with the key ring and began to test the different keys in the lock. She bit her lip as the first two failed, and began to despair when the last key did not fit the lock.

Serwid laughed, but his mirth was cut short when a volley of arrows struck the ship's deck just behind them. She heard a scream of pain from elsewhere on the ship. Meanwhile, the shouts from the approaching vessel were growing louder.

"Keep an eye on this bastard," Ferid told Georg, and handed over Serwid. The boy's cold eyes kept the captain silent.

Ferid walked up to her side. "Here, let me try this my way," he said.

She gaped at him as he pushed her aside, but he did not see her reaction. Placing the tip of his blade against the lock, he raised it and slammed down. Another wave of arrows hit the ship. "Fire!" someone shouted. Again Ferid slashed, and a third time.

The door swung open as he kicked it in.

Arshtat pushed past him and ran through. "Sialeeds?" she said. Looking around, she saw the bed's sheets toss as someone struggled beneath them. Running over, she tore the cloth from the bed.

The gagged and bound child in the bed was not her sister. The child wore a baggy outfit of orange cloth with a brown leather belt cinching the waist, and the face seemed a girl's at first, but as she looked closer, she decided that the child must have been around Georg's age. It was a boy.

An Armesian boy.

"By the runes," Serwid gasped. "He's betrayed me! That bilge rat!" The captain began to tremble with rage.

"What this?" Ferid said.

"I don't know!" Serwid assured him.

The boy's eyes went wide when he saw Arshtat, and he froze, mumbling something through the gag. _Where is she? _She felt frantic. _This is the right cabin; there is no doubt._ Arshtat's hands shook as she hurried to untie the gag around the boy's mouth. She had to try twice before she managed to undo the knot.

The boy gasped for air before he stammered: "T-Thank you…"

"Have you seen a girl with blonde hair?" she asked. She pressed her lips together and tried to calm herself.

"N-No," the boy said. His voice was close to a whisper, and he seemed terrified, perhaps in part by her behavior.

"What's your name?" Arshtat asked as she began to cut the ropes that bound the boy to the bed. _If I do not find my sister, Serwid… Pray that you drown before we meet again._

"Shula," the boy said.

Arshtat shot a murderous glare at Serwid. The captain shrank back for a moment. Calming herself, she turned to Shula and smiled. "Do not worry. We will—"

In the doorway, Yahr drew a deep breath. "Sharks and killer whales… it's the New Armes Western Marine Corps. Brace for impact!" he shouted.

The ship shook.

**-Ferid-**

Ferid took a step back to catch his balance as the ship shook. Seeing Alzhara stumble, he lunged and slung his free arm around her back. She staggered against him and clutched his shoulder with a fumbling hand, but the instant she caught her balance, she pushed him away. She said nothing.

Ferid ignored her and the surging irritation, testing the weight of his sword as he peered through the doorway. He turned his eyes on the Armesian child. _There's no time to figure out what clan these people are. We'd better bring him._ "Alright, we're leaving _now,_" he said. "Bring the boy."

Yahr was already at the bed, leaning down to cut the restraints. It took a few moments for him to free the boy, and then he dragged him from the bed and onto his feet. "Can you walk?" he wondered. Shula, clad in a simple orange garb, nodded.

They left the cabin in a hurry.

The chaos of fatal conflict had erupted like a bursting dam, bringing hails of arrows into an escalating battle of men with swords and spears. The Armesian vessel had collided with the _Raven's Revenge _full on, and its ram seemed to have torn through the ship's hull, perhaps even beneath the waterline. The foreign ship's bowsprit now jutted in over deck, and planks creaked in a chorus of grim anticipation as the two ships ground against each other upon the waves. Ferid had no doubt that the _Raven's Revenge _would be conquered, and he intended to be long gone when this happened. Serwid babbled incoherently in his grip, and he shook his throat to shut him up.

The sun had emerged from behind the dull gray clouds and now fought to disperse the thick fog, but most of the light came from the ominous crimson glare of fires upon the ship. Volley after volley of arrows, many set ablaze, was loosed from the archer squads ensconced on the Armesian ship's stern- and forecastle. The deadly projectiles sailed through the air, strafing the vessel even as the fire spread rapaciously. Ferid could hear screams from all directions as arrows found their mark or torched vital equipment. A sailor fell from the ratlines and made a sickening thud when he hit the deck. They kept low and hid from the archers as they ran.

Three Armesian spearmen ran across a makeshift gangplank slung between the ships and leapt down in front of them. Calling to each other, they sighted their group and charged in formation.

"No! Keep them away from me!" Serwid shouted.

Ferid cursed, slamming his hilt against the captain's head. Serwid's eyes rolled up in their sockets as the man collapsed like a sack of apples against the deck. He shifted his grip to a two-hand grasp

The ships slammed against each other with a mighty jounce, causing the _Raven's Revenge_ to rock on the waves. The foremost spearman staggered. Georg advanced and delivered a vicious slash, dropping the man before he recovered.

Ferid leapt over the unconscious captain as flames erupted to his side. The remaining two spearmen backed up against each other as one of them jabbed his weapon at him. Ferid slashed down, catching the spear's shaft with his blade. He dropped the weapon and leaned in to grab the man's throat. Advancing, he caught him by the shoulder, and before the man could react, Ferid had twisted his head around. The spearman collapsed onto the planks, and his spear clattered. He heard a shout followed by a splash as Georg knocked the third spearman overboard.

Turning, he found Alzhara staring at the cabin from which they had emerged. He called her name, but she swept her gaze around, seeking something she could not see. "I have to find my sister," she said.

Ferid shook his head. "There's no time." _Damn it, but there really isn't._

Nervous, Yahr twirled his blades as he cleared his throat. "Listen, I saw that man Harwan leave, and he had a child with him. I thought you knew."

Alzhara started, then looked at Serwid. "No, I…"

Ferid followed her gaze. Unconscious upon the deck, the captain's face wore an odd expression of confusion, despite his hiding eyes. It seemed as if his bewilderment had fallen asleep with him.

Ferid ducked as another volley of arrows tore through streamers and pierced the sterncastle's walls behind him. "We can't stay here," he said.

Alzhara's expression was as intense as it was tense as she stared at Yahr. "Are you absolutely certain of this?"

"I swear it."

_Thank the True Runes. _"Good," Ferid said as he stood up. "Then let's get out of here before we've shark food."

"No, I still need to find my bodyguard."

Ferid groaned. "The oaf?" He had something worse in mind.

Alzhara scowled. "She is my friend."

Yahr shook his head. "She's in the hold, but there's not enough time. I'm sorry—"

"Then leave," Alzhara said. She turned and began to run towards the hatchway by the mainmast.

Armes marines had spilled onto the deck, and were fighting their way towards the rudder in groups of three. Serwid's men were falling back or fell where they stood, their hopeless struggle illuminated by the flames of dozens of deck fires. Metal blades and wooden shafts clanged and clattered against each other as ambience for these struggles, and he heard shouts behind him as more Armesian marines joined some distant fight.

Ferid unleashed a string of curses as he watched Alzhara run. Turning to Georg and Yahr, he growled. "Keep the boy safe and ready the boat. I'm going to save an idiot and an oaf."

He ran. Catching up to her just as she knelt by the hatchway, he leaned down and pushed her aside. "Leave this to me," he said, grabbing the iron ring. She gave him a dirty look, but he scowled right back at her.

Ferid gave a start as a spearman fell onto a barrel fastened against the mast and tumbled onto the deck just next to them. Alzhara drew a sharp breath, and Ferid tensed on his sword.

The man was still. Soon, the sounds of fighting faded into the background.

Ferid yanked the hatch open. In that moment, something occurred to him. _Sialeeds._ His boots made a splash against draining water as he leapt onto the hold's upper level, and he held out his arms to catch Alzhara. Oblivious or ignorant of the gesture, she jumped down and caught her balance.

"Your sister's name isn't a common one," he said as he looked around.

"No, it is not," she said.

"Your name isn't Alzhara, is it?"

"No."

Ferid stared at her for a moment. _She's… No. I can't deal with this now. It'll have to wait._ He pushed the thought aside.

Pushing overturned barrels and collapsed piles of crates and sacks aside, they cleared the stairs and descended.

A large hole had been torn in the ship's side from the Armes vessel's ram, and the _Raven's Revenge _was taking in water. The ship was sinking.

Fast.

**-Arshtat-**

The noise of seawater gushing into the hold was reminiscent of a waterfall, though the echo within the enclosed space gave it an eerie quality. The ship was tilted portside, and seemed to lean further and further with each moment as a steady stream of water entered through the wound torn in the ship's hull. Those crates, barrels, sacks and boxes which were not tethered or trussed were beginning to gather on the port side, displacing or floating on the water that collected in the bilge; steadily rising. The hold was filling with water, but the remainder was assailed by flame.

Small fires cropped up all around Arshtat as she climbed down the stairs, flames growing into larger blazes upon whatever swath of dry wood there was to be found. She froze at the sight, and despaired. _Feitas' mercy, I hate water._ The cramped space and the rising waterline had her heart hammering already, and she had to steel herself against the threatening panic as she stepped down from the stairs.

Following in her wake, Ferid looked into the hold. Seeing the situation, he tossed his sword up the stairs without hesitation. She heard the blade clatter against wood as it slid to a halt against the planks. "Take my hand," he said, then grabbed her fingers without waiting for confirmation.

Her reaction was instinctive. She shoved his hand away and turned, but stumbled on a seam in the hull. Tripping, she fell backwards into the water and landed on her bottom. The fall stung, and her clothes were soaked through as Ferid pulled her from the bilge and onto her feet. She wiped tresses of wet hair from her face.

"Don't be so damn stubborn!" he scolded. "If you want to find your bodyguard, you'd better cooperate."

Arshtat felt anger rise. "I know," she said. "You just…" She shook her head.

His eyes searched hers for a moment before letting it slide. This time, his hand clasped hers firmly, and he began to move along the dry planks towards the far end.

_Please, by the mercy of the True Water Rune, let Jumana be well when we find her._ Her mind was filling with terrible images of bloated, drowned bodies, forcing her to push the thoughts aside. With the greatest effort.

Flames flickered around them, occasionally hissing as the water reached the base of a flame. The planks of the inner hull groaned with weight as they walked, and ropes creaked.

Arshtat heard ropes snap. She turned to see a crate held against the starboard wall hurtle towards them. Screaming, she pushed Ferid forward and out of its path.

The crate slammed into her.

Her head throbbed with pain. She was knocked down, and drew water into her lungs.

Arshtat panicked. The dull roar of water filled her ears, and she flailed her arms wildly, trying to rise. A weight held her down. She was stuck beneath the crate.

Frightened out of her wits, she screamed, but no sound left her lungs but a gurgle. She pushed her hands against the edges of the crate and tried to push with her knees, but something was lodged against it.

Out of breath, Arshtat felt the darkness closing in. Within the panic, a strange sort of calm had gripped her mind. Forgotten memories flooded her consciousness; a stone quay, a fall into the water, darkness closing in.

A brown-haired boy.

Suddenly, she felt the weight lift from her body. She was torn from the water and succumbed to a fit of hacking coughs and desperate gasps for air. She sagged onto the floor as Ferid clutched her shoulders. She met his eyes, but could not speak. Her nostrils and lungs seemed to be on fire as she breathed.

"You're insane!" he said. He had doffed his vest and shirt, and his bare arms and face were dripping wet. He dragged her further from the water, and she stumbled to follow. "What were you thinking?"

She looked up at him. _As a matter of fact, I was not thinking at all._ She tried to speak, but could not find the words. Clutching at her chest, she grimaced. The forgotten memories were still vivid in her mind. She could not speak, but she could laugh.

So she did.

Ferid pulled her onto her feet and dragged her along. Arshtat stumbled in his wake, fighting a thunderous headache and trying to catch her bearing. Water poured ceaselessly into the hold from the gap, and almost half of the area had been filled already. She stopped laughing before she began to cry from fear.

Ferid's hand squeezed hers. Light flickered as a lantern swung on its hook and came loose. She heard glass shatter behind her as its light winked out. Further in, only raging flames lit the hold, struggling against the rising waterline.

Fumbling along the wall, they hurried through the hold, slipping into the water and wading as often as not. She could almost _feel _the water rising, sealing her fate. She bit her lip and pushed on, feeling the warmth of his hand.

Reaching the bulkhead, they found the door blocked by floating barrels and crates.

"We have to move these," Ferid said.

Arshtat nodded. Together, they waded into the water and began to push aside the obstacles to clear a path to the door. Shorter, weaker, and less accustomed to the work, Arshtat found herself shamed by Ferid's contributions, but he made no comment. He would dive beneath the surface now and then, untying a rope or dragging aside a sunken barrel to help clear the way. The water reached Arshtat's jaw when the door was clear, and only half a foot of its length was above the waterline by then.

"It's watertight, so…" he shrugged.

_So Jumana should be alive, inside. Should be._ She nodded.

"We'll have to work quickly once the door is open. It's going to fill fast."

Arshtat swallowed, and tried to put on a brave face. It might have been convincing. "I am prepared." _As prepared as I will be._ She looked back at the distant stairs. _More than half full already. How will we make it? _She could not imagine there would be time. She looked at Ferid, tried to search his features for anxiety. He was tense—understandably—but she saw no fear. She tried to draw from his confidence.

He dove down and opened the latch. Pulling at the door, it slowly opened as water gushed into the empty room. Arshtat waded through the doorway while Ferid swam under her and emerged on the other side.

Jumana was sprawled out in the opposite corner, bound to a stretcher with several lengths of rope. She was not moving.

Arshtat's heart beat like a drum as she waddled through the room. Ferid reached her bodyguard before her and knelt down as the water reached his boots.

Arshtat threw herself into the corner, hitting her knee on the protruding end of a loose plank. She hissed, and tried to conceal a moan, but drew Ferid's attention nonetheless.

"I am fine," she said, frowning. Leaning down, she ignored the pain and felt for a pulse. Jumana's heart was beating. Moments later she confirmed that the Armesian woman was breathing as well, and heaved a sigh of relief. "She is alive…"

Ferid had already begun cutting the ropes with a small knife, and Arshtat drew out a knife of her own from a simple leather scabbard in her sleeve and went to work. The sheaths' outlines were obvious beneath her soaked clothes, and she noticed Ferid glancing at her between cuts, noting the half-dozen sheaths across her body.

Ignoring the rising water to concentrate on the ropes, Arshtat looked at her bodyguard. The wounds on Jumana's arms had been tended to, thankfully, but the bandages would need to be changed soon, and the work was shoddy. She felt her forehead, and found that the woman was burning up. _She must have a fever. And, if she is still asleep now, she must have been drugged. _She slit the ropes that held her shoulders in place. _Does this mean that Sialeeds remains asleep, too? Better that way. Better if she sleeps through this whole ordeal, and wakes when I have found her. _Arshtat felt panic rise as she noticed the water line rising to soak Jumana's jaw.

She cut the last rope, sobbing with relief as Ferid immediately lifted the bodyguard clear of the floor and onto his back. Arshtat looked at the door. It was completely submerged, now.

Ferid met her eyes and grinned. "We're through the storm. Just the cruise to go, now," she said with a wink.

The ship's hull groaned ominously. Trembling with fear, she looked at the dark water.

She nodded. "Just the cruise."

**-Georg-**

Sweat poured down Georg's face as he sidestepped a rolling barrel and heard it slam into the portside railing behind him. The heat from countless fires singed his ears and warmed his cheeks as he struggled to draw deep breaths of the contaminated air. The burning mainmast pierced the dawn sky like a torch, dispelling the surrounding fog with bright, roaring flames that licked the cloth of the sails and burnt the ropes and beams of the rigging.

Cries of fear and screams of pain rang out from the smoky haze, a chorus of unseen voices adding to the cacophony of the flames' roar and the sound of steel on steel. The Federation Fleet crew fought on out of desperation, the attack too sudden to organize surrender, while scattered groups of Armesian marines prolonged the battle. He had deafened himself to it.

Yahr was somewhere near, hiding in the smoke with the boy, Shula, hopefully near the boat. If it had not burned. Georg's sweat-slick hands grasped the hilt of his sword, and he could feel his pulse against the leather grip as he held the weapon out at his opponent.

The Armesian squad leader's uniform, with orange, red, and brown interwoven in the design, was soaked with seawater as a precaution against the flames, but the heat had almost dried out his clothes at this point. His puffy red beret sat loose, but remained on his head. He flicked the point of his spear from side to side as he advanced on Georg with a grim smile. Their duel had thus far told Georg one thing.

The Armesian was the better fighter.

Bellowing, the man advanced. He shifted his grip back and forth as he walked, alternating his jabs. Georg retreated once more. He glanced round for obstacles as he circled the mainmast with his sword, and prayed that no one would leap out and stab him in the back. At least not before he was burning.

_Where's Ferid?_ Coming too close, he slashed low and slapped the spear's head aside. He lunged, but feinted instead of attacking. The man backed off, but sent a series of counter-thrusts after him. Georg retreated.

His blood pumped, too fast to match his pace, and his head ached while he struggled to breathe. He had resolved to wait for Ferid to return and come to his assistance, but like the Armesian squad leader, it seemed that he was alone in the dark land where the fog had been replaced by angry smoke.

The man flicked his spear to bare the slashing edge and cut from side to side. Swaying back, Georg raised his sword and met the blade. Steel clanged. The Armesian drew back the spear and lunged. Throwing himself aside, Georg singed his shoulder against a flame before rising to his feet next to a barrel. He could feel the ship sinking beneath him. Panting openly, he lowered his sword somewhat.

The man's tight-lipped smile widened. He charged, and lost his beret to the motion. Slashing from side to side, he forced Georg to parry. He twisted the blade again and jabbed once, twice, three times. Georg leaned away from the first and parried the second. The third caught him in the shoulder, and he gasped in pain. Smoke from a burning piece of sail filled his eyes. The attacks kept coming.

Georg swept his sword in blind waves to shield himself as he retreated out of the smoke. The man leapt after him and tried to skewer him. Seeing the attack at the last moment, he leapt aside. The following slash grazed his chest as he fell back.

He sagged down against the railing. He needed an opening, but had failed to find one. The man approached without hesitation. Falling to his knees, Georg pulled his sword back to his hip in a mock sheathing. Feeling faint, he lowered his head.

The man bellowed as he lunged. Georg drew a deep breath. Three feet… two feet.

With sudden vigor, Georg rolled aside across burning rope and splintered wood. He rose in the motion and slashed. And prayed that his count had been accurate.

He felt his blade tear through flesh. He heard a surprised groan.

Exulting, Georg roared and stepped in to deliver an overhand slash. His sword tore down through flesh and made a sickening sound as it caught. Blood sprayed on his face.

When the smoke cleared, he saw the Armesian spearman on his knees, split halfway through the shoulder by his blade. He withdrew his sword and turned his head with a shudder of revulsion as the man dropped face forward onto the deck.

Shoulder and stomach throbbed with pain. He was alive, but there was no pride in the victory. He had won only because he had been underestimated. One mistake, one hit, and it had been over.

It was a difficult lesson to swallow, but necessary. _One good hit is all you need..._

Stumbling down against the railing, Georg watched the hatchway through lurid flames as his vision grew hazy. It was too hot. Much too hot. Something large swept through the air and crashed into the deck, shaking the vessel. His vision turned to gray.

He heard his name called through the mist, and the clatter of a sword at his side.

Then the gray faded to black.

**-Ferid-**

Ferid fought the fear as he surfaced in the air pocket, holding Jumana's head against his chest. He concentrated on his breathing, drawing deep and measured breaths to recover. The ceiling was close, so close to the surface of the water, and the hold was all but filled. There were but a few small pockets remaining along the ceiling. Alzhara broke the surface next to thim, looking terrified despite her best efforts to hide it. She had courage.

He forced a smile, and nodded at her. Halfway through the hold, Ferid had begun to doubt their chances of escaping, but he was not about to admit it, even to himself. The ship had tilted even further as they swam, and they were crawling forward. Without both of the women weighing him down, escape would be a simple matter. He would make for the hole torn in the hull and reach the surface outside. However, it had become painfully clear that Alzhara could not swim. As for Jumana…

"We're almost there, now," he said, and was met by a doubtful look. "Ready?"

"Ready."

One hand clasping Alzhara's and the other shielding Jumana's mouth and nose, he dove under. Kicking with his legs, he darted through the dark water, barely making out the features of the hold. The ship's increased tilt had caused the chamber to slope down towards the stairs, and with the flames extinguished, there was little light left to go by.

They resurfaced in a pocket of air about two thirds of the way through the last stretch. Drawing deep lungfuls and tending to Jumana's unconscious breathing, they dove down again just as the water filled and removed the pocket. That was the last one. _No more air._

He dared not glance at Alzhara, for fear that her terror would discourage him. Instead, he kept his eyes on the dark outline he took for the stairs and swam with greater vigor than ever before. Something was wrong: There should be sunlight from the stairs. The outline should be clearer.

With three more kicks, he came close enough to find the answer.

Piles of splintered planks and broken debris had fallen into the stairs and blocked them. It would take too much time to clear the rubble, and they were running out of air.

Masking his panic, he turned to shoot for the hole in the hull. He could see it in the distance, lit by shafts of light that speared down into the sea.

It was too far away.

Seeing no other option, he strained towards the egress, dragging the two women behind.

Alzhara slipped out of his grip.

Ferid turned in the water, reaching out for her. She made no effort to reach him, but instead shook her head as she watched him. Though her features were twisted with fear, she was determined.

Furious, he glared as he grabbed for her, kicking and flailing to reach.

Suddenly, the ship shock, and moments later something large broke the surface. Ferid looked round to see the deck gaping open as broken planks and parts of the mainmast's riggings sank down into the water. Light shone in through the opening.

Alzhara looked stunned. Taking the opportunity, Ferid reached out and clasped his hand around her forearm in a stone grip. She did not resist.

She was unconscious.

He felt his own mind wander, growing dull as the spears of light that shot through the new hole bled into the dark water. Expending his last strength, he kicked up.

He reached an empty crate that floated on the surface and hauled Alzhara onto it, over the surface. She seemed to disappear above.

Dizzy, Ferid grasped for the crate and pushed Jumana up. For some reason, she seemed to float right out of his grip.

Too tired to swim, Ferid tried to hoist himself up. Too tired to hoist himself up, Ferid clung to the crate. Losing his consciousness.

Something grabbed his hands and yanked up.

His head broke the surface, and he gasped for breath, drinking every sweet lungful with pure joy even as his lungs burned with each breath.

Opening his eyes, he stared up at the stupidest grin he had ever seen.

"Lieutenant! I was afraid we'd lost you," Yahr said.

Ferid fumbled about the gunwale as he was pulled through, and tried to look around. His vision was blurred, but he could see that he was in the boat they had planned to steal. He sought faces, and found them. Georg, Alzhara, Jumana, and the boy, Shula. Only the latter was conscious. His relief was overpowering. He slumped down into the boat, listening to the disappearing bubbles as the _Raven's Revenge_ sunk beneath the ocean's waves towards a timeless grave.

"We made it…" he whispered.

"Well, not quite yet, Lieutenant…" Yahr said.

Something in Yahr's voice made Ferid jerk upright—as much as he could manage in his exhausted state—and he looked around.

The painted burgundy hull of the Armesian vessel towered over the boat. A rope ladder had been slung down towards them, and he followed its rungs with his eyes, up towards the deck.

Meeting the stern eyes of the ship's captain. He took a glance at the man's uniform, and the golden feather on his blood red beret.

_True Runes in pieces… It's the Western bloody Marine Corps bloody _Admiral_. This has got to be a joke. _The man was flanked by dozens of Armesian archers leaned against the railing all along the vessel.

Ferid turned to look at Yahr.

"Wake me up when they're gone," he said.

Too exhausted to move, he collapsed.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Aside from the prologue, this chapter is set in the Solar Year 433, 16 years before the beginning of Suikoden V. The ages of the characters portrayed in the chapter are as follows: 

Arshtat: 18, Ferid: 20, Georg: 13, Shula: 13, Sialeeds: 9, Yahr: 16


	2. Chapter 2

**-Arshtat-**

Solar Year 420

Arshtat saw her face reflected in the marble tiles as she padded down the corridor, creeping along the side with a hand brushing against the wall. Voices carried from the intersection ahead, where the palace's great hall loomed near. With each step, those mumbled words became clearer in her ears.

"That is not what happened." Galleon's voice.

Arshtat pressed up against a column and peered out. Her heart fluttered with excitement. She bit her lip, tossed her oversized sleeve to brush hair from her eyes, and then padded across the corridor. She slid the last few steps into the shadows between a pair of fluted columns. The marble cooled her cheek as she peered out into the great hall.

Galleon and Jumana stood at the entrance to the antechamber leading up to the great hall. Their backs, both clad in the black and gold of the Queen's Knights, were turned to Arshtat, but she could see their faces in profile. Jumana's eyes bulged, and her lips kept twitching. Arshtat thought she looked very upset. Neither of them seemed aware of the girl hiding at the mouth of the adjoining corridor.

"Don't be so naïve," Jumana said. "The boy had no reason to touch her, much less…" She pursed her lips and shook her head before deciding on, "Molest her!"

Arshtat edged closer, and leaned against the pillar. The conversation confused her a bit, but that didn't bother her. As long as they didn't spot her, she was happy. In a moment of daring, she leaned out into the corridor and blew a raspberry at the pair. She pulled back, and held her breath.

"I have seen it before," Galleon said. He went on as if he'd seen nothing. "Sailors of the Island Nations do the same for comrades who've swallowed water." He sounded thoughtful, or curious.

Or oblivious! Arshtat wrapped arms around her body to stop from shaking with the muffled giggles. They hadn't seen a thing! Content with her coup, Arshtat snuggled up against the column and tucked in her legs to listen. Now she wondered what they were talking about.

Something happened in Hershville, but her head had gotten all foggy since she woke up the next morning. She remembered water, and the taste of salt, and the clouds and the sun overhead, but it was all mixed up. She couldn't see the memories, even when she squeezed her eyes shut. Mother said it was the water spirits pounding on her head. She wished they'd stop pounding.

Jumana pressed the issue. "To other men?"

"Aye."

Jumana shook her head with such violence that her thick braids flopped around. "No. Your eyes must have deceived you."

"Perhaps," Galleon said. He paused to think his words through before adding, "But the boy was a child, and I've known boys to be more innocent than that. What he did, I believe he did to save the Princess' life."

Arshtat's ears pricked up at that. She gaped, and reached up her sleeve to stroke the polished wooden handle of the Federation Fleet knife tucked up there.

Jumana did not respond to Galleon's statement. She turned on her heel and her footsteps rang out through the great hall. She was out of sight in moments. Galleon put his fists on his waist and watched her go. After a dozen heartbeats, he followed in her wake.

A hand clasped Arshtat's shoulder. She yelped, gave a start, and turned to see a wide grin staring back at her.

"Father!"

Kauss Barows had been as quiet as a cat as he snuck up on her. She hadn't heard a thing. Now he hunched down beside her and stroked hair from her forehead.

"What's this, Pixie? You're hiding in a corner?"

Arshtat pouted and shook her head. "I wasn't hiding. I was—"

Kauss gave her a long look. "I know precisely what you were up to, Pixie. You're such a scoundrel. Are you sure you're a princess? You seem more like a mouse to me, the way you slip out from under your minders' eyes and scurry from wall to wall." He plucked at her sleeve. "Mother will be upset if she sees how you've gotten your dress dirty again."

Arshtat flailed her arms. "I'm not a mouse!"

Kauss broke a smile, but it was gone as quick as it came. He nodded. "Not a mouse, you say?" He craned his neck and looked her over. "Ah. Forgive me; you're right." He pushed a finger against her nose, making it scrunch up against her face. "More like a piglet."

Arshtat gaped.

Her father burst out laughing. Arshtat puffed her cheeks and glared at him. When it became obvious that he was not going to stop laughing, she turned her eyes from him in protest. But he pulled her from the ground with a grunt and cradled her against his chest. She squirmed, but he tickled her into submission.

"Look, Pixie. Here's the deal. You're a crafty little mouse, but you leave a trail of cheese crumbs that any cat could follow. If you want to go unnoticed, you have to make sure that no one realizes you're missing." He settled her on his arm. "Otherwise people will come looking for you."

Arshtat pursed her lips. "Then… I could hide even from you, Father?"

Kauss made his face blank. "No. That's not going to happen. No one can hide from me."

Arshtat tried to pout, but was forced to smile as he tickled her chin. She giggled.

Kauss' eyes widened. He snatched his hand up her sleeve and pulled out the knife. He held it up out of her reach and turned it over in his hand. "Well, well. What's this, Pixie? I thought the fey folk detested cold iron."

Arshtat faced his stern look and did not shrink. "I found it," she said. "It's mine."

"This is Federation Fleet equipment. Standard issue. I see… But a princess isn't supposed to play with such dangerous toys."

"Please, Father, give it back! I'll be careful. I promise."

Kauss smacked his lips and shook his head. He dangled the knife just outside her reach. "We'll have to talk to Lord Ardashir about this."

Arshtat shrank away from his grip. Grandfather! His scoldings were the worst. Somehow, even without saying anything, he could make her feel terrible. She opened her mouth to protest, but she could see in father's eyes that the matter was set. But there was a smile on his lips. Maybe she wasn't in as much trouble as she thought.

**-Ferid-**

Solar Year 433

The rhythmic groaning of the bulkheads was the first sound that reached Ferid's ears. His eyes fluttered open, and he stared up at a lantern hung from a hook in the ceiling. It swayed with the ship's motions, casting a light that made the shadows dance between the timber supports down in the hold.

Ferid dragged hands through sloshing bilge water and pulled his back up against the bulkhead. He tasted salt, and coughed. Seawater trickled down his jaw and out of his nose.

"Lieutenant," Yahr said. The man scrambled over on all four, pulling out a canteen and pressing the lid to Ferid's lips.

Ferid gripped the canteen and gulped down water. He drank enough to wash the taste of the sea out of his mouth, and then let up.

"Where are we?" he croaked. He let out a groan, and massaged the back of his aching head.

Yahr settled back, leaning arms on his knees. "We're on a floating pile of driftwood named the '_Morning Glory_'." He rapped his knuckles against the hull. "The Armesians call it a ship."

Ferid grunted, and slid his back up against the wet planks. He leaned forward, stretched out his back and arms, and looked around the hold.

Georg slumped against the bulkhead on the other end. His head lolled against his shoulder, but his chest was rising and falling with each breath. Bandages wrapped tight round his shoulder, chest, and hand. Yahr had made the best out of the meager resources given to them.

Water seeped through chinks in the hull's caulking, gathering in a slow drip in the bilge. By the pitch and roll of the ungainly vessel, and the sounds of the wood groaning, Ferid guessed that they were in the rear hold. Right up against the stern, and close to the water.

"What about the others?"

Yahr grimaced. "They took the girl to a room in the sterncastle. Same thing with the woman—the bodyguard. They seemed surprised to see her, and not because they happened to like the way she filled out her shirt, if you know what I mean."

Ferid grunted. "She was Armesian. I wonder what relation she has to this clan."

Yahr shrugged, rising to his feet and loping over to check on Georg. "No telling. But they handled the boy like he was sunken treasure hauled from the ocean floor."

More than the woman's fate, Ferid wondered at the relation between the Armesian boy and their captors. He didn't know much about the politics of New Armes, but the boy was as likely a pawn in their schemes as a beloved child thought lost.

"It was arranged for them to find him here. Harwan set this up. But not alone, I'll bet." Was Harwan swimming in the same school as their captors? Had they been trawled into a waiting net, like tuna being driven by Kanagian divers?

"I'll bet you're right, lieutenant." Yahr glanced at the door into the hold, flourished a hand, and said, "It's locked, by the way. Not sure how well. I was getting lonely in here 'fore you woke up."

Ferid choked on a chuckle. "Charming."

Yahr ran his sleeve over Georg's forehead, swabbing away water. "The marines weren't too pleased with us. They looked like they wanted to keelhaul us right here and now. But the Admiral wouldn't allow it." He grimaced. "Can't blame 'em. We did gut a couple of their guys, and Georg here took down one of their bigwigs, I gather."

"If you want to break up a dance early, bring Georg," Ferid muttered. Glad as he was for waking up with his throat intact, Ferid wouldn't bank on the admiral's goodwill. The fact of the matter was that they were captives aboard an enemy vessel, and the best they could hope for would be a lucrative ransom. But the Albatross would deny their existence, so they'd get nothing there. That left the prospects of hard labor in the salt mines, languishing in some forgotten prison keep, or a rendezvous with the headsman's axe. Ferid had a feeling that neither of his comrades would appreciate those options any more than he did. The ship wasn't moving at the time—he wondered at that; for what reason were they remaining?—but it would soon pick up wind in its sails, and with each moment lost to inaction, the _Morning Glory _would plow through another wave and came one yard closer to Armesian waters.

Ferid shook his head. "You still got a knife, Yahr?"

Yahr felt over his sides before nodding. "I think so, Lieutenant." He coughed and tossed his head to sweep wet silver hair from his face. His face wasn't showing much of anything, but Ferid could read the lad well enough. He was rattled.

Ferid nodded soberly, and stood up. He felt woozy, and nearly stumbled before grabbing a support beam with his hand. No weapons, but at least their hands were unbound.

"We'll catch our breath while we wait for Georg to finish up with his beauty sleep." He fixed his eyes on the door. "Then we'll go exploring."

"Sounds great, lieutenant." Yahr grinned. "I've always wanted to get a taste of the famous New Armes hospitality."

**-Arshtat-**

Arshtat jerked awake, gasping for air. She had to breach the surface. She had to breathe! She flailed her arms and clawed for a grip. She dug her hands into damp cloth. Her lungs filled with air.

Arshtat sat upright in the bed. "You—"

No one heard her. She was alone, and inside an unfamiliar cabin. The _Raven's Revenge _was at the bottom of the ocean, so this was…?

She studied the sparse furnishings. Tapestries draped from the walls, showing scenes of clansmen engaged in hunting or warfare, or arranged in obedient postures surrounding clan chiefs. A bundle of colorful garments lay neatly folded near the door.

Armesian tapestries, and Armesian clothes. The attacking vessel. Of course! She went cold. She had barrelled down that hold with no thought for the consequences. And she couldn't even swim! What was she thinking? But she was alive.

And then it hit her like a fist in the gut: Sialeeds was gone. And what had happened to Jumana?

Arshtat shifted, and the bedclothes writhed beneath her. She wrinkled her nose. Her wet clothes plastered her skin, and had soaked the bed. She rubbed at her arms, and shivered.

She had to assume that she was a captive. Outside that door, a marine would be posted. Or more than one. But no one waited inside, and no one had touched her clothes. She felt for her daggers, and found each leather-strapped sheath still hiding beneath the damp cloth. Two blades had gone to the bottom of the sea with the _Raven's Revenge_, but the others remained in place. Including her most precious blade, hidden near her heart. So they hadn't searched her.

Arshtat let out a sigh of relief and crept out of the bed. She tiptoed over to the bundle of clothes by the bed, leaned over, and peeked through the keyhole.

The shifting leg of a marine blotted out the light. She heard the man stifle a yawn.

Escape seemed inadvisable. She could climb out the latticed windows through which the morning light streamed into the cabin, but what then? Even had she been a strong swimmer, she wouldn't be able to reach land. She needed a boat. And though she'd just about gotten her sea legs, the task of sneaking through a ship and stealing passage on some rowboat lashed to the deck seemed insurmountable to her mind. No, she needed more information. She would do what she did best. She would negotiate.

Arshtat bent to rifle through the clothes. She found a baggy pair of trousers whose pale rosy shade of figs clashed against the apricot-hued loose tunic meant to be tied at the front with a wide cloth belt. She realized to her relief that she had been given the garments of a man, and not the skimpy things she'd seen Armesian girls traipse around in, leaving the belly and most of the legs bared, like a Raftfleet child playing in the Feitas. There was also a feathered red beret, and beneath the garments she found a pair of high-strapped sandals.

Arshtat toed the bundle out of place, padded to the side of the door, and slowly, silently pulled a low cabinet into place against the edge of the door. If someone tried to swing the door open, she would know in time. With an afterthought, she pulled the belt from the bundle and hung it from the door-knob, concealing the keyhole, before she shed her wet clothes and tossed them on the bed.

She studied the tapestries more closely as she hiked up the trousers. Warriors sprang into motion on the weave, stilted, rigid figures, wielding long-spears and shields, and garments in shades of red and rose.

The Madra Clan, unless she missed her guess. In whose hands rested the burgeoning fleet called the New Armes Western Marine Corps. She wrapped the sleeveless tunic round her chest and fetched the belt to tie it in place over her stomach. The garment hung over the trousers, and the end of the belt rested near her feet. She felt several sizes too small in these soldier's clothes.

Arshtat tied her hair into a quick ponytail and slanted the feathered beret onto her forehead. She pushed the cabinet aside, and swung the door open.

The marine lunged back, clearly startled. His spear lowered, but then flicked back up as the man caught himself. His cheeks flushed momentarily.

"I wish to speak with the captain," Arshtat said. She peered past the man.

The morning light glared against the clean-scrubbed planks on deck. Seagulls laughed, flying low across the glittering waves of the calm sea. She had emerged from a cabin in the sterncastle, and looked ahead to the two-masted rigging, in which square sails were furled up and roped to the yard by sailors clambering through the rigging and scuttling down ratlines.

So they were staying put. She wondered at that.

The marine seemed taken aback, and stared at her. "The captain… ah, he's— You're supposed to—" The man swallowed, and then said, "Come with me."

The marine stumbled into an awkward walk before her. Arshtat's sandals tapped against the planks as she followed in the man's wake. She felt the eyes of the crew. Few men were topside at this hour, but she counted eight marines and perhaps half again as many sailors. She reasoned that there would be at least as many men resting in bunks and hammocks below deck. Perhaps twice as many. It was a bulky ship, though only two-masted. She would ask Ferid about that. If he were alive. She had to prepare herself for the possibility that she was the last survivor. She felt a sudden chill.

The captain's cabin was marked by an ornate red-lacquered door. The marine rapped his knuckles against the surface and waited for an answer. Then he pushed the door open and showed Arshtat inside.

She squared her shoulders and held the beret in place, then glided across the threshold.

Sunlight slanted through latticed windows, casting a bright light upon a wide desk facing the door. Charts were rolled out on the tabletop, weighted down by a brass compass that reflected the glare of the sun. The rest of the cabin was shaded, and there in the dim light sat the captain upon a bed of cushions. His eyes focused on a knee-high table upon which a game of Scales was arrayed. He looked up when Arshtat approached.

"You're a fish out of water," he said in a thickly accented Falenan.

"'Fresh or salt, in every situation, we are the fish best suited to the water'," Arshtat quoted in Armesian. She saw a bunch of cushions on the opposite side of the table. "I do not know whether to thank you or curse you for this," she said, and took a seat.

The marine gasped. He raced towards her, shouting, "Cur! Stand in the presence of the Admiral!"

He was halfway to Arshtat when the Admiral held up a hand to halt him. "Let her sit," he said in his own language. He looked her up and down, and his brows rose. When he spoke, his voice was tense. "You speak Armesian. And you know your philosophers. Impressive. I am Admiral Jusuan Mantal of the Madra Clan. You may call me Admiral Mantal."

She nodded her head. "I will. You may call me Alzhara, admiral. I have no titles worthy of mention."

The man's lips twitched in a hidden smile. "Is that so?" he leaned forward, and asked, "You seem to have many talents. Do you also play Scales?"

Arshtat lowered her eyes to the checkered board. "At times," she said. The board was adapted to a life at sea, and shallow sockets were carved into the board to hold the painted wooden figurines even in tumultuous waters. The pieces had been moved from the original positions, suggesting that a game was in progress. The placement indicated that it was her turn to move.

She plucked the carved representation of the True Water Rune and placed it three steps closer to the Circle.

Mantal's eyes widened for a moment. He reached out towards the Rune of Life and Death, but hesitated. A surprised look spread on his face as he met her eyes. "That's an interesting move."

The cabin's walls creaked as the ship swayed in the gentle waves. As the Admiral's indecipherable eyes fixed on her, Arshtat once again felt glad for having conquered her seasickness.

Mantal flicked the fan in his hand open and waved it at the marine standing by the doorway. "Leave us."

Without a word, the man filtered out of the room. Arshtat heard him latch the door closed, but did not take her eyes from the Admiral. Once alone, the man pulled the puffy red beret from his head and raked his fingers through his graying black hair. He set the hat down on his lap and his eyes grew hard. "The abduction of a chief's heir is a serious offense. Even worse for you when we find ourselves on Armesian soil."

Arshtat raised an eyebrow. "I have partaken in no abduction. Neither have any of my current companions. Is this in relation to the boy; Shula?" She motioned at the board. "It is your turn to move."

Mantal blinked, and his eyes darted to her face before fixing on the board. He slowly licked his lips, searching the board as he said, "Shula Valya is heir to the Valya family." He plucked the Dragon Rune and shifted it one step back, then looked her in the eye.

"Your move."

A defensive move. Conservative.

Valya. A family important to the Madra Clan, if her memory served. Arshtat circled a finger against her cheek for a long moment before she realized what she was doing and stopped it. She leaned back, and sat upright. She suppressed a twinge of annoyance. There was no reason to be nervous. The admiral would see reason.

"It is no matter. The boy will inform you of your mistake." She buoyed a finger against the Bright Shield Rune. "I have reason to believe that he will show us some gratitude for the parts we played in this tasteless fiasco." She leap-frogged the Bright Shield Rune over the True Fire Rune.

Mantal leaned back and wrapped his burly arms around his chest. He shook his head, staring at the Scales board. "Indeed Shula has spoken on your behalf. But he, alas, is but a boy, and doesn't know the wiles of men. Or women. Who's to say that you weren't involved? That your timely 'rescue' of the boy is not a ploy to save your hides?" He flashed a humorless smile, and gestured at her. "Please, tell me more about my serendipitous guest."

She had to tread lightly. Falena and New Armes had never been on good terms. Their close borders inspired many gnashing teeth on either side, and the peace they now enjoyed was tenuous at best. If the admiral found out her true identity as a princess of Falena, the Madra Clan could be counted on to take advantage of that fact. Even with the best of intentions, such a charged situation could lead to war.

"Your _guest_," Arshtat said with a smirk, "Is Alzhara Tawydd. Daughter to a merchant out of Estrise."

"Why were you on the _Raven's Revenge_?"

Arshtat adjusted the fit of the belt. "My sister and I were traveling for the Gaien Dukedom along with our two minders. One of whom now, I hope, is also a guest on your ship."

Mantal reached out for the Rune of Change. He plucked it from the board and set it down between the True Wind Rune and the Dragon Rune. Then he leaned his elbow on a puffy pillow. "Two minders? Where is the other? And what of your sister?"

Arshtat's stomach was in knots. Where was Sialeeds? Was she safe? She had considered omitting her sister from her story, but she realized that if she were to mount a rescue, she may well need Mantal's sympathy, if not his cooperation.

Arshtat frowned. "She was taken by the same person who abducted Shula Valya."

"Oh? And that person is…?"

"Harwan Sharoum. My sister's minder. A traitor."

Mantal rubbed at his beard, and slowly nodded. "What sort of goods does your father deal in?"

Arshtat felt a measure of pride in not flinching at the question. "Armesian spices, cloth, salt," she said smoothly. She shifted the True Wind Rune two steps to her right. "But he's trying to break into the Island Nations wine trade. That's where the money is these days."

Mantal pulled the sword-shaped figurine representing the Rune of Night from the board and placed it adjacent to the Circle. He pursed his lips. "What kind of Armesian spices?"

Arshtat smiled. All those times in the Senate when she'd wanted to let her mind wander into daydream instead of focusing on the drone of reports: finances, policies, judgments… and trade goods. She was glad for having resisted the temptation, now.

"Carom seed, cinnamon, coriander, saffron, and fennel, mostly. Though admittedly the saffron harvest has been of limited success, lately." She scanned the board, and noted the configuration of the pieces. "Ah! And your move frees the Sun Rune." She clapped her hands, then daintily leaned in to switch the positions of the Sun and Circle Runes.

The game was over.

Mantal widened his eyes. His hand jerked towards the board, but stopped over the figurine, fingers clenching. He pressed his lips together, and stared at the board. The Admiral was silent for a time, and then leaned over the table. Figurines clacked against the board as he began to reset the pieces.

Mantal's lips twitched. Something dark had passed over his eyes, but it was gone. "Your minder is an Armesian woman?"

"Jumana."

Mantal nodded, hesitating in the placement of two pieces. "She has yet to wake."

Arshtat leaned in on the table. "Can I see her?"

"After I have spoken with her."

Arshtat leaned back. Yes, that would be acceptable. She had stuck to the story her father had drilled into her, and Jumana knew it well. She would not betray her.

"I must find my sister. What do you intend to do with me?"

Mantal furrowed his brows. "I too would wish to find this 'Harwan.' But several things trouble me."

"Please tell me."

He scratched at his beard. "You have the most curious traveling companions."

Arshtat slanted her head. "You meet the most fascinating people on a ship."

"That is true. Life on the sea tends to bring out the true nature of men… and women." Mantal leaned back and clasped his hands over his brown-and-gold belt. When his eyes rose to meet hers, she saw danger in them. "Did you realize," he said, scanning the carved figurines on the board, "That your newfound companions are members of a group known as the Albatross?" He looked up. "Federation Fleet spies."

Arshtat reeled back as if struck. She was gaping. She shut her mouth and frowned. The genuine nature of her surprise may well serve as proof of her ignorance, but she felt a twinge of irritation at hiding her emotions so poorly.

They were little more than boys! How could they be spies?

"Not to mention," the Admiral said, "That in the confusion surrounding the boarding, several of my men were killed."

"In self-defense, admiral," Arshtat said. "As you said, there was some confusion."

"Nonetheless, you now wear the clothes of a dead man. And in light of Shula Valya's abduction, such acts could easily be misunderstood."

Arshtat tasted bile. So that was what this was about. Who had that man been? She did not dare ask. She had to focus on the positive.

"My concern is for my sister." She drew up in her seat, and gestured with the palms of her hands. "Do you truly believe that I am part of this plot?"

"When it comes to the agents of the Albatross, young lady, I have come to expect anything. You carry yourself well. Almost too well. How can I dismiss outright any notion of your involvement?" He shook his head. "Impossible. So you see, even with Shula Valya's testimony, I have reason to believe that you or your companions are somehow involved in his abduction. I am not a man who believes in too many coincidences."

Arshtat drew a deep breath. "How can we convince you?"

Mantal shook his head. He had finished arranging the pieces, and now stared at the Scales board. "To discourage crime, we must be merciless against offenders. You will be taken to New Armes, where you will stand trial. We will need time to find the truth."

Arshtat sagged in her seat. Time Sialeeds did not have.

**-Ferid-**

Georg made a sudden start, and broke into a fit of coughs. He shivered and sat up against the wall. His eyes flickered open to look out over the hold. They wouldn't quite focus.

"Lieutenant," he croaked.

Ferid rose from his knees. "Look who decided to join us."

Yahr hurried over to Georg. He had a silly grin on his face; equal parts mirth and relief. "You're awake?"

Georg worked his mouth to moisten his lips. He dropped his head to the side to get a better look at Yahr crouching beside him. "What kind of question is that?"

Yahr shrugged. "Just idle words, Georgie." He checked the bandage on the boy's shoulder.

Georg hissed, and pushed Yahr's hands away. "That hurts like hell."

Yahr smirked, but held his hands up and backed off.

Ferid ducked below a beam and walked up to them. He nudged Georg's knee with his boot. "Can you move it? Is everything working?"

Georg grimaced. He stretched out his limbs and winced. He looked down and discovered the bandages wrapped round his chest. "Right, that too." He shook his head, and made to stand, shaky hands clutching at the bulkhead. "I'm fine, lieutenant."

Ferid snorted. "You look like you just wrestled an orca."

Georg stretched out, stumbled back, and caught himself on the bulkhead. "You should see the orca. I gave it such a pounding, its children will be born black and white."

Yahr scratched at his head. "They're all black and white."

Georg shrugged. "See?"

Ferid cracked his neck both ways and stretched out his sore joints, then paced over to the door. He listened at the frame, and heard nothing. Then he bent to peer through the keyhole. He saw the central hold beyond, lit by sunlight streaming in through a latticed hatch. The stairs below the hatchway glowed in the light. Barrels and crates were lashed to the bulkheads in the shadows to the sides of the hold. There were no marines outside.

Georg stumbled up next to him, rubbing at his brow. He looked around, seeing the hold for the first time. "I thought the ship sank," he muttered.

"Don't worry, it did," Ferid said. "We're working on the next one, now."

Georg's lips twitched into a quick smile. "Who?"

Yahr slapped a hand down on Georg's hale shoulder. "New Armes Western Marine Corps. How do you like that?"

Georg gave him a silent look.

"The Admiral," Ferid added.

Georg blinked, then looked between the two of them. His eyes then focused on the door. "We're locked up."

Ferid shrugged. "You were napping. We had no one to sweet-talk them."

Yahr grinned. "Just as well. Georg always hates himself the morning after. I'm not listening to that again."

Georg swatted him across the head, but Yahr recoiled and kept grinning.

"Enough of that," Ferid said. "We're taking a look around. There's no one outside. I'll just—"

There was a knock on the door. Low, hesitant.

Ferid froze up. He bent his knees and slowly leaned down to squint through the keyhole. He saw another eye peering back at him.

"Hello?" said a voice in Armesian from the other side of the door.

"Who's that?" Ferid asked.

A moment's hesitation, and then the voice said, "Shula Valya."

Ferid raised his brows. The Armesian boy they'd rescued from the _Raven's Revenge_? He looked at the others.

Ferid turned back to the keyhole. "What are you doing here?"

The boy remained silent for a time, and then said, "I don't know. I wanted to see you."

Ferid leaned his forearm against the door. "Hey kid, you know we didn't have anything to do with the people who took you away, right?"

"Yes."

"Good." Ferid stood up and leaned his shoulder to the door. "You wouldn't happen to have the key to the door, would you?"

"No."

"Can you get us out of here, somehow?"

The boy didn't speak for a time. Ferid rapped his knuckles against the door. "You still there, Shula?"

"Yes," the muffled voice said. "I don't know."

"Don't worry about it, Shula." But damn, that would've been smooth as beach sand. To waltz out of here and untie this whole messy knot in one swift stroke.

"Are these people your friends, Shula?"

"Yes. They're my clansmen."

Ferid grunted. They probably weren't out to hurt the boy, then. But who knew? Politics were complicated at times. For the boy's sake, he hoped he was someone important. Or maybe the other way around.

"Listen, Shula, you'd better—"

There came a shout from outside the door, followed by footsteps pounding towards them, making the floor of the hold creak.

"Get away from there!" someone said. Like Shula, the voice spoke Armesian.

The scuffle of footsteps sounded outside. Someone approaching and someone leaving. Then the door shook. The man outside switched to a thickly accented Falenan. "Get back, you dogs!"

Ferid stepped away from the door.

The voice switched back to Armesian and spoke in low, hushed tones. "Guard this door. Make sure they don't try anything."

Ferid cursed inwardly. He turned to the others.

Yahr mouthed, "What?"

Ferid flashed a hand signal: 'Guard.' He followed it with a series of rude gestures.

Things just got a whole lot more complicated.

**-Mantal-**

Mantal looked at the woman sitting on the edge of the lower of two bunk beds propped up against the side of the cramped sailors' cabin evacuated to hold her.

Jumana was unmistakably Armesian. The sun had beaten her skin into a leathery texture and had given it the burnished coppery hue of the Riya—southeastern tribes populating the desert wastelands across the Amayan Foothills. Jumana, like most Riyans he'd seen, was a woman of hard lines and angles. Relentless heat and constant toil and migration across the rock-strewn hamada sucked the curves right out of the women, and made them stiff and sinewy. The Riya dwelled in a harsh land, and had become a harsh people. Reckless barbarians. Difficult to deal with, or involve in the matters of the New Armes Kingdom. Tax collectors seldom made the perilous trek over the Amayan Foothills to levy tribute for the King, prefering instead to remain closer to Muaddha and its opium dens and brothels.

How a woman of the Riya had turned up as the bodyguard of a Falenan emissary—or spy—Mantal could but wonder. But seeing the woman brought back memories.

Admiral Jusuan Mantal had worked his way up through the ranks of the New Armes navy before there even was a navy. The son of a minor family within the Madra Clan, Mantal had begun his career as a front-line soldier in the blessedly rural Eastern Desert Corps, crushing scorpions underfoot and sleeping through guard duty at forgotten trade posts along the spice route. Half of those years he'd spent in sick bed, recovering from one desert malady or the other, and the rest of the time he'd either parched or drunk off his ass. And not a pretty woman in sight. He had seen the Riya and their blasted land, and he'd loathed it.

At the age of seventeen he had lost his father, his last surviving parent, to malaria, and he had returned west to become the head of a household which consisted of himself, a ramshackle hut in the slums of Kuwayya, and a flea-ridden camel with a lame leg. He'd sold both for enough rupees to purchase a dagger and a good pair of boots, and he'd went to sea on a merchant vessel.

Mantal had taken to life at sea like a fish to water—though he hated the taste of fish. He'd crawled through the holds like a bilge rat, bailing, caulking, and battening down goods until a timely death opened up a position on deck. A few years later, following a fierce storm and an encounter with Gaien privateers, he had found himself the acting captain of the _Good Fortune_, a weather-beaten junk with a badly caulked hull. One quashed mutiny and a return trip to Muaddha later, the merchant house had assigned him as proper captain of the vessel. The title came with two casks of complimentary rum that tasted like piss. His crew had quaffed it gladly.

When the Western Marine Corps was formed, Mantal had been recruited to serve as one of its first captains. Those days, there was little structure to things. New Armes had to build a marine corps from the ground up, with access to little outside expertise other than a widely distributed naval manual written by a Middleport native by the name of Schtolteheim Reinbach III. The book was as confusing a narrative as Mantal had ever seen, and in the chaotic years of trial and error that followed, he eventually threw the book to the sea's floor in a fit of rage. Things became simpler after that.

Five captains had aspired to the rank of admiral of the fleet. All of them were ambitious, belligerent men with little experience of a disciplined military life—Mantal included. The matter was decided during a conference held on neutral ground on a small island off the Salt Coast. A drunken brawl ensued, and Mantal stumbled out as the last man standing, clutching an arm with seven puncture wounds in one hand, and his bloody dagger in the other. The damn blade has snapped in the fight. Cheap, shoddy work. The camel had been worth more than that. But the boots still served him well.

Things had picked up after that. Mantal had found that, by chance, he made a serviceable admiral. Under his administration, the navy had gone from the laughingstock of the armed forces to a respected and effective military branch of the New Armes Kingdom. And the Madra Clan that once considered him and his family as little more than chattel now saw him as a hero. He'd even become something of a patriot in the intervening years.

But Mantal had never forgotten his years with the Eastern Desert Corps. He remembered the Riya. And he didn't like one bit that one of the desert rats showed up alongside a trio of Albatross spies and a Falenan girl with a face like bottled sunshine.

Mantal shifted in his seat, and worked loose the muscles in his left arm. The wounds had never healed quite right.

"Jumana. I'll spare you the embarrassment of asking your family name."

The woman's brow hung low. She cradled the bandage wrapped round her hand, and stared at him.

"Where is Alzhara?"

"She's come to no harm."

Jumana leaned forward. "Take me to her." She made to get out of the bed.

Mantal shook his head and motioned for her to remain seated.

Jumana plopped back down with a sullen frown on her lips.

Alzhara. Was that her real name? Mantal doubted it. He knew by now that he had been mistaken to presume the Falenan girl to be the most easily influenced. He had a hard time admitting it, but the way she had carried herself, proud but relaxed, eyes focused but showing no emotion, had unnerved him. She had acted as if she were conversing with an equal. As if it had been she who fished _him_ out of the sea like a drowned rat! He'd reached for the minnows, and plucked a shark from the waters. But what a tantalizing shark. Who _was _that girl?

He had to get Jumana to talk. She would not be so sophisticated. She would reveal the identity of the Falenan girl, and from there, he could begin to piece together the puzzle.

Mantal glowered. "It's rare to see a woman of the Riya west of the Amayan Foothills."

"Not everyone thrives in the desert."

"You speak Armesian like a borderlander would. You've been a long time from New Armes."

Jumana shrugged. "I found the climate of Falena more to my liking."

"Enough dancing around," Mantal barked. He stood, planted hands on his belt, and drew himself up over the woman. "I spent three years in your rune-forsaken wasteland of a home. I know that Riyans don't separate from their home tribe unless they're exiled, and it takes a lot for a Riyan to get cast out." He scowled at her. "And I know that a Riyan would rather die of thirst than tell a lie, though you've no compunctions about killing or looting. I'll never understand your people, but I know how you work. That's the only reason I'm still alive."

Jumana held his eyes with a defiant stare through most of his speech, but towards the end she cast her face down and sagged against the bed.

Mantal studied her reaction and nodded to himself. He gestured with one hand as he said, "Are you going to tell me the truth?"

Jumana glanced up at him and snarled. Then her eyes wandered, and her shoulders shook as she sighed. She nodded slowly.

**-Arshtat-**

It took about five minutes for Arshtat's patience to break. She had been pacing back and forth down the length of the cabin, but now plopped down in a cushioned armchair and expelled her breath.

She hated sitting still. The cabin seemed to shrink by the moment, and her nerves were as taut as the tarred lines on deck. She cradled the armrests and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the creak of the wood. She was tired of that sound, too.

What game was Admiral Mantal playing at? The New Armes Western Marine Corps had no business this far to the north into Island Nations territorial waters, and their current position was, if Arshtat remembered the charts—and she was sure she did—closer to Falena than to New Armes. The Federation Fleet wouldn't look kindly on a visit from the Western Marine Corps this deep into their turf.

Which meant that Mantal had as important a purpose as there could be for coming here. The admiral wanted to give the impression that Shula Valya was that reason. Which would mean that Mantal had received word about the boy's capture and sailed to intercept his captors. But if that were true, the whole string of events seemed as tight a fit as she could imagine into the timeline. She traced the routes in her mind, imagining her fingers running over the embossed texture of the grand map that hung in the drawing room in the east wing of the palace, as they had when she was a child barely tall enough to stand tiptoe and reach the chart.

One week. The shortest route from any point in New Armes territorial waters to this point would take one week to sail. She was certain of that. And it made the whole notion fall apart: Serwid had been as bemused as she to find Shula Valya in the cabin. Harwan was a crafty little sand grub, but she doubted if he could hide the boy from the ship's own captain for a week or more. No, far more likely the switch that carried Sialeeds off the ship and planted Shula in that cabin had occurred within hours of the _Morning Glory_'s arrival. And that meant that Mantal had been alerted of the boy's presence by none other than Harwan. As a disruption meant to waste time and throw them all off the trail, which in turn meant that Admiral Mantal was a bull lead by the horns.

The abduction of Shula Valya was problematic. As things stood, the admiral might infer that the crime had been carried out by Federation Fleet spies—though she had never heard of this 'Albatross' as he called it. Her own presence, a Falenan, was even more problematic. The clan chiefs of the New Armes Kingdom were both superstitious and belligerent. What words would those vipers whisper in the king's ear? And then there was Sialeeds. Harwan had said he intended to ransom her sister back to the royal family. But was that true? The abduction of Shula Valya seemed both an arduous and unnecessary feint. What if the two kidnappings were part of the same pattern—a pattern intended to fan the sparks of war between Falena and New Armes? Arshtat shivered at the thought.

Then there was Ferid. The Albatross. Federation Fleet spies. Arshtat did not believe in too many coincidences. Who stood to gain from a war on the Southern Continent? She wouldn't assume such subterfuge on the Island Nations' part, but she had to be open to the possibility.

Arshtat stood, and smoothed her trousers. She had to find out more. Admiral Mantal had suggested that she was welcome on deck if she wanted. She would test the truth of those words. There was such nice weather outside.

**-Ferid-**

First, Ferid would have to deal with the guard. To work under cover of darkness would have been preferable, but he didn't have much choice. The _Morning Glory_ was dead in the water for now, and Ferid guessed that the admiral was waiting to rendezvous with another ship. Idling in Federation Fleet waters for too long was a risky business, and through testimony given by captured Armesian marines and sailors, the Albatross had pieced together a picture of Admiral Mantal as a man of capability. The admiral was no fool. Soon enough he would leave these waters, and make for home. With whatever unwilling passengers still stuck in the hold. And once that happened, it could be too late to act. He didn't know the waters around the horn of New Armes nearly as well as his own, and it would be doubtful work to escape if it came to that. He had to figure out where they were going, and fast.

Which left the guard. The post had changed after roughly an hour, and a new man now paced about outside the door. During that time, Ferid had noted no others in the hold, nor did anyone seem to inspect it through the hatchway. It seemed a safe bet.

Ferid reached into his sleeve and felt for the knobby protrusion near the inside of the bicep. He ripped the fabric and pulled out a two-inch-long cylinder of polished bronze. The cylinder twisted at the middle and popped open, revealing a rolled-up piece of parchment. As he unrolled the tiny scroll, the glyphs embedded in the parchment flared into life.

Albatross agents seldom carried runes due to the difficulty in hiding them if discovered. But they had something almost as good, and more subtle besides. A dozen squiggly signs marked that wrinkled parchment, each symbol pulsing emerald green with a magic born of the True Runes. The power of a Wind Rune, transcribed onto paper by a rune sage.

Ferid pressed the parchment against his open palm and began to trace the glyphs with his finger. The symbols faded beneath the warmth of his skin, and sparks of green light built in his hand. When his finger passed over the final glyph, the parchment withered and smoldered, buckling with heat and then turning to fine ash in the palm of his hand. Above it, dozens of motes of green light danced like active fireflies.

Ferid padded up to the door and kneeled before the keyhole. He waited until the guard outside reached down to scratch his leg. Then he held his open palm to the keyhole and blew at the motes.

Dust and motes of light plumed, surging through the keyhole or racing along the surface of the door and through the sliver-thin gap in the doorframe. A moment passed, and then the guard sneezed. He muttered something under his breath, and then yawned.

Ferid pressed his ear against the door and counted the heartbeats. Five, ten, fifteen… twenty.

Boots and limbs rattled against the wood outside as the man crumpled to the floor.

Ferid turned to Yahr. "Alright. Work your magic."

Yahr flourished a lockpick from his sleeve and sauntered up to the door with an intense grin. He pressed a palm and his cheek to the door and set to work on the lock. The moving tumblers clicked like a metallic beetle trying to escape the aperture. Then with a final clack and a rustle of iron, Yahr pulled the lockpick from the door and backed off, gesturing at it.

"It's all yours, lieutenant." He felt for the sheath hidden in his breeches. "You should take the dagger…"

"No. It'll be better if I don't have it, in case I get caught."

"True Runes forbid…"

Ferid pushed open the door and stepped over the unconscious form of the marine. The man lay at an angle, pushed up against the corner by the door with his head leaning against the bulkhead. His eyes were closed, and his mouth hung open with a rattling snore that was blessedly low. His chest rose and fell in time with his breaths.

He would sleep for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Enough time for Ferid to do what needed to be done and then return to the hold as if he'd never been gone.

The sides of the hold were lined with gunports. More than a hundred years had gone by since last a Rune Cannon burst with fire and smoke, but the Armesians had built their navy from scratch, using designs recovered from the writings of Island Nations shipwrights from generations past, before the Federation Fleet existed. The modern ship designs were closely guarded secrets of the fleet—which made the _Morning Glory_ an obsolete pile of driftwood. The gunports were battened down with thick cordage from inside, but without the use of cannons to make the design worthwhile, it would be nothing but a liability in high seas, and a drag on maneuverability. But in this case, the gunports worked in Ferid's favor.

He went to the rear of the hold and untied the ropes holding a portside gunport shut. He peered out, and squinted at the light.

The morning sun had burned the fog from the air, and a featureless sea rested across the horizon. Calm waves sloshed against the hull twenty inches beneath his head. Shafts of sunlight glittered on the scales of schools of fish swimming below the surface, but the water was deep and unfathomable. Sailors were singing a sea shanty as they worked on the deck and in the rigging, but the ship was at rest and only a few voices were truly engaged in the song. No one seemed to pay much attention to the hull.

Ferid contorted his shoulders and slipped through the opening. He twisted round and grabbed the top of a protruding plank. Then he pushed out and hung down, pressing against the hull and scuffing his feet against the wood, seeking a foothold.

His boots slipped again and again. His foot hovered just above the surface of the water. Another miss and he'd make a fine splash. He was holding his breath, and his flexed fingers ached against the plank. He hoisted his knees up, and tried again.

This time, his boots found purchase.

Ferid exhaled. He once again thanked his blessed ancestors for the design of the ship. The modern ships had much sleeker, smoother hulls.

Ferid hugged the hull and began to work his way, inch by inch, hand over hand, towards the stern. He heard the footfalls of heavy boots and the creak of wood approaching the rail above, and froze, pressing against the planks. Sweat ran down his back. His fingers throbbed with an ache like fire. Then the bootsteps turned.

He swung beneath the quarter gallery and clutched the miniature head of an angel carving as a handhold. The ornate gallery made for easy climbing, and the inward slope of the top of the outcrop would've given his arms a rest. But the quarter gallery was in plain sight for attentive marines, and not least sailors working in the rigging. He kept to the underside, working his hands from knob to knob, carving to carving.

He worked by feel, and paint flaked beneath his fingers. He kept his eyes moving, dividing his attention between the sailors on the ratlines and the empty horizon. Not an island in sight. The ache was working up his elbows and arms. Ferid reached out and clutched at a carving. He grasped air.

Ferid's shoulder swung down. The pitch carried him down and forward, and the hull smacked his face. His vision swam. His fingers slipped, and he flailed his fallen arm, seeking a handhold. He gritted his teeth and braced his boots against the hull. His right hand closed around the body of a slender sculpture. Then his left hand slipped away.

Ferid hung down from the quarter gallery. The toes of his boots sloshed water. His grip was good, so he took a moment to catch his breath. He'd been careless. If he'd fallen into the water, the splash would have been sure to bring attention to his position, and there was no guarantee that he would be able to climb back up the hull from the surface.

He cleared his thoughts and reached up, then hoisted himself up on the quarter gallery, scrambling and shuffling up so that he hugged the hull above the slope of the gallery. Then he grabbed a wrought-iron lantern, braced his left foot against the mermaid statue at the end and swung around to the stern.

Several double-door windows admitted light into cabins inside the sterncastle. He emerged below them. The ship's emblem was carved into the transom. Two Armesian tigers rampant against a mango tree. The design provided an excellent foothold.

Ferid clambered over the edge of the sterncastle and lay flat against the ledge, listening. No sound drifted through the windows but the low creak of the bulkheads. He edged his head up and peered through the latticed window.

Light streamed past his head into the captain's cabin and lit up the sandalwood desk at the back. A sea chart was stretched across the tabletop and pinned at the corners. On the far wall by the door hung a larger map of the Southern Continent and the Island Nations. The cabin was unoccupied.

Ferid unlatched the window and climbed inside. He bent over the sea chart.

The waxed vellum glistened in the light. Several routes were penned into the sheet, with dotted lines in various colors running courses along the territorial waters of New Armes, sometimes passing over Falenan waters. But one route deviated from the others. A rosy dotted line curled up along the edge of Island Nations-patrolled waters, curved in across empty seas to a rendezvous spot fifty miles from Nay, marked with a big X. Then the route swung around and retraced its steps towards New Armes. The ink hadn't had time to fade into the vellum.

Ferid stared at the chart. He tried to piece the puzzle together. If the admiral had come for the boy, he would be well on his way to Muaddha by now. No, he was waiting for something, and when someone waits out in the middle of the sea, fifty miles from the nearest land, it could only mean one thing. Another ship was coming.

But what ship? Shula Valya's abductors? But the boy was safely back on the admiral's ship. And if Mantal hungered for revenge—and Ferid had him pegged as the kind of man who nursed a grudge like a long lost son—he could hardly believe that Harwan would return after losing his bargaining chip. Unless Alzhara's sister was the cargo the admiral hoped to bring home, which made little sense to Ferid. It seemed more likely that Harwan had involved Admiral Mantal as a diversion. Which meant two things. One, that Mantal had illicit business in Federation Fleet jurisdiction, and two, that Harwan had been aware of this. This had the stink of treason on it. Was there a relation to Serwid—may he taste salt water for an eternity—and his slaver bands?

Suddenly there was a sound. Boots scuffed up against the door. The doorknob turned.

Ferid wheeled around and leapt onto the windowsill. He leaned to the side and rolled down onto the ledge outside. Reaching up, he pushed the window-panes shut as fast as he dared. He heard the door open.

The floorboards creaked beneath footsteps moving closer to the window.

Ferid held his breath. He stared up at the window, seeing nothing of the cabin; only the wooden lattice itself. He knew that if someone—the admiral?—looked out through the window, he would likely be seen. But to swing down and climb out of sight, he needed time. Not a lot of it, but too much. And he would, for a short moment, be in plain sight. What were the odds that Mantal would stop to gaze out the window? Another thought froze him. His boots had touched water earlier. Had he slogged it over the floor? Would it be enough to make the admiral take notice? His shoulders began to ache with the strain of tension as he lay there, alone with his frantic thoughts.

After what seemed an eternity, the footsteps turned, and moved away.

Ferid waited five heartbeats, and then swung down from the ledge. He had what he needed. Now he had to make it back to the hold. He braced his feet against the carved emblem and reached out for the lamp jutting out from the edge of the sterncastle. He used it as a pivot and swung around to the quarter gallery.

Ferid took a moment to catch his breath and collect his mind. He'd gotten a feel for the carvings adorning the gallery, and from there, he found it an easy matter to climb back down the hull. His fingers had numbed when he slid through the gunport.

The marine had curled up in the corner, and his snoring made a rattling noise that didn't carry out of the hold. He'd be out for several minutes, yet.

Ferid tapped his knuckles against the door, waited three heartbeats, and then whispered through the keyhole, "I'm back. But I'm going to take a look through the hold first."

"Got it," Yahr whispered.

Ferid crept through the shadows hugging the bulkhead, stepping over coiled lengths of rope and dodging barrels lashed to the timbers. He made his way to the other end of the hold and felt the door. It was unlocked, so he twisted the knob and pushed it open. He stepped into a storeroom that stretched twenty feet towards where the keel curved in and up into the bow of the ship. The walls were lined with barrels of water and rum, and crates of salted fish and meat and vegetables. Supplies like cordage, bundled canvas for sails, and spare lanyards and spars littered shelves or soaked up bilge on the floor. But something else caught Ferid's attention.

A space had been cleared in the middle of the hold. Sunlight slanted in through the seams of the planks above and lit up motes of dust dancing over something large, like several crates, covered with a tarp.

Ferid pulled it away. And his jaw dropped.

The design was crude: little more than an iron box on a wooden carriage. Rope was lashed about the thing, battening it down in case the wedges failed to hold the wheels in place. But the muzzle at the end of the stubby barrel left no doubt in his mind. The damned Armesians were building a Rune Cannon.

The steel blade of a dagger chilled Ferid's throat.

He twisted and grabbed the slender wrist holding the dagger, then swung around and reached for his attacker's throat. Another dagger pointed right at his face.

"Nice try," said Alzhara. "But many people want my hand. I've learned to protect it."

She wore the ceremonial finery of an Armesian marine officer, and her sun-bleached silver hair was tied back in a pony-tail beneath a puffy beret, but there was no mistaking the Falenan woman. Her sky blue eyes fixed him with a look like frosted iron.

Ferid leaned his head back and stared down at the dagger point. She had a steady hand. "What do you want?"

"Where is my sister?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Put those daggers away, and I'll give you my best guess." He frowned. "By the runes, what are you doing here?"

"No guesses. Where have you taken her?"

Ferid stared at her. "Frozen seas! You think I'm involved?"

She flicked the dagger along his throat and tossed her head at his hand. "Release me. And I'll give you my best guess."

Ferid scowled. "Lady, you're a few planks short of a hull. I'll let go when you put away your daggers." Her skin was smooth like silk, though swordplay had left calluses in her hands. Not highborn, then, which surprised him. A Falenan noblewoman would never sully her hands with weapons. They were too proud for that.

"How did you get it into your head that I had something to do with your sister's abduction?"

She shook her head, waggling the beret. The look she threw him was that of a startled cat. "You and your companions are members of the Albatross. That much I know. My guess: Your superiors got wind of Serwid's scheme, and you were sent to keep an eye on things. When the matter got out of hand, you were forced to intervene."

"Nice guess. I—" Ferid glanced over her shoulder, and widened his eyes.

Alzhara's concentration lapsed for a moment. Her eyes flickered towards the door.

Ferid slapped her hand away and grabbed the wrist. She yelped. Holding both wrists, he squeezed and pulled her arms over her head until her feet lifted right off the ground. She glared at him, and scrunched up her mouth as if she tasted something sour. He put his face right next to hers.

"Nice try. But a lot of people have wanted my throat, and I've gotten pretty good at protecting that, too." He frowned. "Now, about your delusions. I had nothing to do with your sister's abduction. I don't know how you figured out that we're Alb—"

Alzhara hammered her boot into his crotch.

Ferid bent at the knee. He gasped for air and blinked away tears. Alzhara twisted out of his grip and shoved him back. His bottom hit the Rune Cannon, and he fell backwards over it.

The weapon came alive with a whirr, and began to vibrate and hum.

Alzhara stood over him, daggers forgotten in her hands. Her mouth hung open, and she stared at the Rune Cannon.

"That's...!"

There was no time for her to finish the thought. Bootsteps clattered against the ladder outside the door. Marines were coming down the hold. From the deck came shouts and more creaking and clatter as sailors and marines moved above them.

Alzhara whirled around. She had just enough time to bury her daggers up her sleeves, and then half a dozen marines streamed into the hold, breathing hard and flashing weapons. They fanned out through the hold and formed a circle of steel around Ferid and Alzhara. Behind them, Admiral Mantal appeared through the doorway.

"So, it is true what they say. All ships have rats in the hold."

**-Arshtat-**

The door slammed shut on the prison hold, and a chain rustled as a padlock was clicked in place.

"Damn it," Ferid said, "If you'd just sat tight instead of sneaking around with daggers flashing, we'd be cruising by now."

Arshtat reached up her sleeve and clutched a hilt for protection. "I still need an answer."

"What answer?" he spat.

"Where is my sister?"

Ferid leaned an arm against the bulkhead, and fixed his eyes on the bilge that sloshed about his feet. He scowled. "I'm still reeling from the kick you gave me. I'll need a minute to think of an answer that's as stupid as your question."

She frowned, and started towards him. "Then the kick wasn't strong enough. I want a good answer."

Yahr peeled away from the wall and stepped in her path. With a smile, he motioned for her to stop. "Please?" The boy glanced at Ferid's hunched position, and grimaced. "The lieutenant looks like he really does need a moment."

Ferid snapped his head around. "An answer, is it?" He pushed Yahr aside and came close enough to stare down at Arshtat's face. "Here it is: I don't know. I have no idea. We've been hunting Serwid and his school of slimy anglers for months, until you blew the operation right out of the water. If Harwan is involved with that scum, I might know where the tide rolls in. But right now, we're minnows swimming with sharks."

Arshtat stared up at him. Her nurse had said the truth was in a man's eyes, but as she got older, she'd stopped believing that. She'd found it too easy to lie, and keep a straight face. But there was something about the emotion that _did _show in Ferid's features, the way his mouth had contorted into a thin line and was drawn back as if tasting something bitter, that spoke to her. Perhaps men did not learn to guard their thoughts and emotions, like women did. She believed he was truly upset.

But his attitude was deplorable. Arshtat wrapped her arms around her chest and raised an eyebrow at him. "Your 'operation' means nothing to me. My sister's been abducted by slavers—or worse. If you're not part of the problem, I expect you to be part of the solution." She wafted a hand at him. "And by all the runes, the way you speak makes me doubt if you were born with your head above water. I've never heard Falenan so ill treated, even in the southern provinces. You may as well have your own language!"

Ferid's jaw had gradually dropped as she spoke, and now hung open. He clamped it shut and snarled before saying, "Then why in the deep are _you_ part of the problem? If you'd stayed in your cabin and braided your hair and polished your nails, we'd be one step closer to your sister instead of two steps further away. And I don't give a…" he hesitated, then settled for, "…a broken rune piece for what you think of my language. I speak Falenan as I was taught."

His cheeks had filled with color. Despite the situation, Arshtat could barely keep from smiling. But she despised his attitude. And more than that, she despised the fact that he was right. After discovering them in the fore-hold, Mantal had thrown her into the makeshift brig situated in the after-hold, and the guard outside had been doubled at least. The admiral had been furious with the marine discovered sleeping at his post. A quick search of Ferid, Georg, and Yahr had turned up no runes adorning their hands or foreheads, and the Armesians had been thus satisfied to believe that the guard was at fault. Arshtat was not so sure.

Arshtat knew that escape would be more difficult now. It didn't help matters that she would no longer be able to manipulate events from abovedeck. But the way Ferid rubbed it in made it impossible for her to admit these things. She would not give him the satisfaction when he behaved like such a child. Besides, she had needed to be sure of his intentions.

"What's done is done." Arshtat slanted her head. "Braid my hair and polish my nails. Did you believe I am that spoiled?"

Ferid snorted, then said, "I think you're so highborn, if you fell into the ocean, your nose would still touch the sky."

Arshtat rolled her eyes. "I'll let you have the last word on that. What are you going to do about the Rune Cannon?"

Georg had been oblivious to the conversation. He paced on the spot, clenched and unclenched his fists, and scratched at his palms. Now his head snapped around, and he gaped.

"A Rune Cannon!"

Yahr rubbed at his chin. His eyes were wide. "Lieutenant, is that true?"

Ferid tilted his head and clutched his arms. He seemed to see Arshtat in a new light. "So you noticed."

Gasps came from Yahr and Georg.

"The Island Nations haven't had Rune Cannons for 130 years," said Arshtat. "I'd imagine this is more interesting to the Albatross than slavers."

Ferid scratched at his chin, and muttered, "I need to shave." He sat back against a timber support and chewed on his lip for a moment before flicking his eyes up at the others and saying, "I don't know if it works or if it's just a prototype, but it's more than just a piece of junk. It hummed like something alive. And isn't it funny how the New Armes Western Marine Corps just happens to sail into Federation Fleet waters with a Rune Cannon on board." He shook his head. "I need to make sure that slab of iron rusts on the bed of the ocean before I leave this ship."

Yahr nodded, then asked, "What about the charts? Did you see them?"

"Yes. It's just a matter of time, now. The route is—"

The padlock rustled, and fell away with a clank. Then the door opened, and Mantal stood framed by sunlight. He pointed to Ferid.

"We need to talk, you and I," he said in Falenan.

**-Ferid-**

Admiral Mantal smoothed his trousers and sat. He steepled his fingers against the desktop. When he spoke, he took his time forming the words, and seemed uncomfortable with the language. "You'll forgive me for… not affording you the same hospitality as your women companions."

Ferid stood in the middle of the cabin, facing the desk. Shackles bound his hands behind his back, and three marines crowded around him. One of them handled a length of chain connected to the shackles.

Ferid stretched out his shoulders and neck, grimaced, and then flashed a smile. "I'm used to it."

Mantal ran a hand over the desktop. He eyed Ferid from beneath the folds of his beret. "I can believe that." He darkened. "The Albatross… The bird is a lot like a gull. Except its wings are spread wider when it shits on your sails."

Ferid smirked. "Poetic." Then he let the smirk fade. "Our operation has nothing to do with the New Armes Western Marine Corps. You're detaining Federation Fleet officers and civilians under our aegis, in Island Nations waters."

"Under your… aegis?" Mantal grunted, and half stood. "Not so. The women are not your charges."

Shackles and chain clinked and rustled as Ferid shrugged. "They are travelers in Island Nations waters. They are our charges whether they know it or not."

Mantal plopped back down. "Why are you here?"

Ferid thought for a moment before saying, "I guess there's no harm in telling you. The captain of the _Raven's Revenge_, the vessel you boarded, was in the employ of a notorious band of slavers known as Leviathan's Grasp. We stole away on his ship, hoping that he would lead us to his masters."

Mantal grunted, and said, "Then our arrival came at a bad time for you."

Ferid pursed his lips, and shifted from one foot to the other. "Things had turned sour before your arrival. But now we're stuck on your ship, and I wonder what you're going to do with us."

"Yes," Mantal said. He leaned forward against the desktop. "I wonder, too."

"Release us, Admiral Mantal. I know many places where you can drop us off and be gone before anyone wonders what a ship flying the New Armes ensign is doing in Fleet-patrolled waters."

Mantal narrowed his eyes. He stared at Ferid for several long moments before saying, "It is a shame you poked your head into the fore-hold. If you had not seen what you saw…" Mantal shrugged, and went on, "Things have, as you put it, 'turned sour' between us."

Ferid felt sweat bead on his forehead. He could say that he had seen nothing worth mention. Imply that he hadn't understood what was there before his eyes in the hold. But a man like Mantal would take offense at such a pathetic lie.

He managed a weak smile. "The Rune Cannon is not my concern."

Mantal leaned back in his seat. "But it is _my _concern." He shook his head. "I cannot release you. I must find out how much you know. But first…"

"What?"

Mantal straightened in his seat, and scowled at Ferid. "Several of my marines were killed in the boarding. Among them was a midshipman; a squad leader in the boarding. I want to know who killed him."

The look on Mantal's face promised pain. Ferid was at once breathless, and his mouth felt dry. He worked through his memory. Several Armesian marines had fallen to Ferid's sword. He had seen no rank insignia on those men, but such details had a tendency to get lost in the heat of battle. It could've well been him. But even if it hadn't been his sword that delivered the killing thrust, he was still responsible. He was in charge.

Ferid made his eyes hard. "I killed him."

Mantal's scowl deepened. "Reports tell me that you were in the hold. My men believe that one of your subordinates is responsible."

Georg, then? Most likely. The boy seemed to have a death wish at times.

Ferid snorted. "My subordinates are spineless rats. They don't have the guts to kill a man face to face. I chopped the man down before I went into the hold."

Mantal stared long and hard at him. Finally he blinked, and slowly nodded. "Men die in a fight. I cannot hate you for that. But my men have lost comrades. They must see an answer."

Sweat prickled at Ferid's neck. The sullen looks on the faces of the marines surrounding him spoke of the truth in the admiral's words. What punishment did he have in store for him? Ferid banished the thoughts racing through his head. He drew up reserves of anger instead, and set his jaw until it ached. Let them kill or maim him. He would die a man of the sea. And whatever didn't maim him, he would withstand.

Mantal pushed his chair back and stood, nodding at a marine. "Lieutenant," he said in his own language, "Call the crew onto deck. And bring out the scourge."

**-Arshtat-**

Two marines escorted Arshtat out of the hold and pushed her up the stairs onto the deck.

The sudden sunlight blinded her. She shielded her eyes from the glare. Admiral Mantal had gathered the ship's crew into two rows lining the port and starboard bulwarks, and all faces were directed inward, amidships. There, thick ropes bound Ferid to the mainmast. He had been stripped to the waist, and the warm midday sun smote his back and shoulders. His arms wrapped around the mast, and he hunched against it with his back exposed. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath, but he was silent, and stared ahead.

He was steeling himself. Arshtat ran her eyes over his broad shoulders. In the fore-hold, he'd pulled her off the ground with as much ease as a child scoops up a cat from the table. She'd been surprised at that, but now saw that beneath his shirt, Ferid's arms and shoulders were roped with well-defined muscle. Funny that. He'd seemed so lean at first glance. Almost lanky.

Some men had noticed her ascent, but none spared her more than a glance. All eyes were on Ferid, and upon the midshipman whose boots creaked against the deck where he paced back and forth, unfurling a cat-o'-nine-tails. Her escorts took up position at the ends of either line of men, and straightened.

Admiral Mantal strolled up to her. He had his hands folded behind his back, and fixed her with a grim smile. "Alzhara. I want you to see how spies are treated in New Armes."

Arshtat furrowed her brow. "This seems a poor reward for saving the life of Shula Valya. Will the boy be watching his savior's flogging, as well?"

Mantal looked taken aback, but only for a moment. His lips twisted into a smirk. "He is much too young. He wouldn't understand."

Arshtat shook her head. "Then I must be too young as well. This is absurd."

"Watch yourself." Mantal walked up beside her. "This is not for you to judge. And yes, you are too young." He gestured towards a marine who stood at the ready by the sterncastle.

The marine saluted and then quickly disappeared through one of the doors. When he emerged, he pushed Jumana ahead of him.

Arshtat widened her eyes. When the woman came close enough, she took her bandaged hands in hers and frowned. "Jumana. Are you hurt?"

Jumana shook her head. "I am more worried about you, err, Miss Alzhara."

She hesitated a bit too long on the title. But that was quite alright. Arshtat smiled. "Do not worry about me. I have not been mistreated. Though I can't say the same for Ferid."

Jumana spared a glance at the man before saying, "Miss Alzhara, don't waste your energy on that scoundrel. I'm sure he deserves it."

Arshtat blinked, and then scrunched up her lips. "Jumana! How can you be so—"

Mantal raised a hand to silence her. "It begins."

The midshipman cracked the scourge in mid-air several times to test it. It made a dull sound. He took up position behind Ferid, and spread his legs wide apart to gain strength in his blows.

"Admiral, I urge you to reconsider this," Arshtat said. "We will cooperate. There's no need to—"

The scourge lashed against Ferid's back with a thud. He grunted.

Arshtat flinched. Blood rushed to her temples, and she clenched her jaw. "Admiral Mantal. I want this to end, now."

He scoffed. "You are in no position to make any demands. Especially not after you started crawling through my hold like a common rat."

Arshtat flared her nostrils. "I prefer 'mouse.' She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and said, "If you won't stop this, then at least tell me why."

Mantal arched an eyebrow. "Isn't it obvious? This man killed several of my men."

She twisted her lips into a mirthless smirk. "You take me for a fool."

The admiral's face went slack with surprise. "Miss?"

The scourge thudded against Ferid's naked skin. The midshipman made alternating strokes against his shoulders and back, and angry red welts formed in its wake. Ferid steeled himself, but now and then a tortured grunt escaped his lips. He thrashed his head from side to side, face contorted in pain as he ground his teeth together.

Arshtat's throat felt dry. She swallowed several times before saying, "You mean to tell me that you're taking revenge for your dead men. But you know full well the circumstances of their deaths. Your marines leapt across the railing with spears raised to kill. They were ready to die, and however meaningless their deaths were, I cannot believe you are so vindictive that you do not see that. There is no crime here." She shook her head, and made a sweeping gesture at the assembled men. "I see no fury in the faces of these men."

Jumana's eyes widened. "Miss Alzhara, don't agitate him."

Mantal scowled. He fixed Arshtat with a hard look, and stared at her for several heartbeats. Then he pursed his lips and nodded. When he spoke, his voice was low, for her ears only, "You see clearly, Miss Alzhara. And you play the Scales. A remarkable woman, you are. I told you that the clothes you wear belonged to one of my dead marines. The truth is that the midshipman who wore these clothes before you was the son of a friend of mine. A son I had sworn to protect." He frowned, and stepped in to brush a fallen hair from her shoulder.

Arshtat saw Jumana bulge her eyes and bare her teeth in affront at the touch. Arshtat fixed her eyes with hers and made the tiniest gesture of a head-shake. She sighed inwardly. How could Jumana expect her to remain calm if the woman could not master her own emotions at a time like this?

"Will you whip all three men for his death?" she asked.

Mantal tightened his lips. "Ferid has admitted to killing him. Only he will be punished."

Arshtat blinked. He'd admitted? But Ferid had been with her the entire time from the first shiver of the deck as the two ships collided. She was certain he had killed no midshipman. She started to say something, but thought better of it. Of course. The fool had martyred himself. If she spoke now, Mantal may well punish the others in his place, and there was no guarantee that Ferid's punishment would be cut short.

She forced herself to watch the scourge's motions without flinching. To Mantal, she said, "How long will this barbaric display last? Do you intend to flay the man?"

Mantal clenched his fist. "I don't know." His voice broke, and he cleared his throat before adding, "The sound of the whip is soothing to me as I imagine the face of my friend. But I had hoped that the sight of him would give some comfort."

The scourge thudded against Ferid's back and ripped a howl from his lungs. The scream was filled with more fury than despair.

Arshtat clenched her jaws shut to keep from matching the howl. She realized she was grinding her teeth, and relaxed a bit. She tried to keep her voice level as she spoke. "There will be no comfort, admiral. Your friend's son fought and died as a warrior. If there is blame here, it should rest on Harwan for provoking an utterly meaningless conflict." She had to pause and rub at her temples. She had a headache as deep as the Feitas.

"That is small consolation," said Mantal.

She wanted to punch him in the face, but decided that it would likely be counterproductive. "Admiral Mantal. This whipping means nothing. You will face your friend eventually and tell him that his son is dead. Whether your friend forgives you or not, I don't know, but Ferid has no part in this. He fought in self-defense."

Mantal was silent for several, oh-so-quick, heartbeats. Then he cleared his throat and called out, "Enough!"

The midshipman halted in mid-swing. The scourge's tails went slack and dangled around his elbow. He lowered his arm, and stepped away. Two marines hurried over to the mainmast and began to untie Ferid. Dozens of welts striped his back red, and blood trickled down his shredded skin where shallow lacerations had opened.

Arshtat expelled her breath in relief. "Thank you," she said.

"You have convinced me," Mantal said. He turned to face her, frowning. "The boy will return with us to New Armes. My friend will decide his fate."

Arshtat's heart sank. But at least it gave them time. She gave a quick nod, then turned and said, "Jumana—"

"I am surprised," Mantal said in a voice loud and clear, then followed with, "That you care so much for the boy's fate. You see, Jumana has told me the truth about you."

Arshtat looked at her. Jumana cast her eyes downward, and wouldn't meet hers.

Had Jumana revealed her secret? She couldn't believe it. The woman would sooner die. But the look on her face was filled with such guilt. Could it be true?

"And what, exactly, is that?" Arshtat asked.

Mantal rubbed at his beard. "Your father is a cold man, to send his daughters to run his errands. Especially when it's darkleaf you aim to purchase. They don't look too kindly on that in Queendom ports, I hear."

Arshtat gaped. She glanced at Jumana, and tried to mask her relief with a feigned look of hurt. Smugglers, were they? Darkleaf was a powerful narcotic grown in Kooluk. If you got caught bringing a crate of that foul substance through Hershville, you'd likely rot in a Stormfist cell for the next decade. Her grandmother was aware that the trade was carried out somewhere in Island Nations territory, but had gotten no closer to shutting down the inflow into Falena. The story made sense, though it was distasteful.

"There was no ban on darkleaf in Muaddha, last I heard."

Mantal chuckled. "It's not my concern. It's an outrageous story, a pair of girls and a Riyan smuggling darkleaf between Kooluk and Falena. Almost too absurd to believe. Except…" He glanced at Jumana. "When told by a desert woman, I have to believe it."

Jumana seemed to wither under the admiral's smirk. Arshtat wondered how much it had cost the woman to lie to Mantal. He seemed to know more about the Riya than Arshtat did, which piqued her curiosity. But for now, Jumana's sagging shoulders would serve as 'proof' of her shame in betraying her mistress. Which well fit their masquerade.

The ropes fell from Ferid's wrists. He staggered, and his cheek slid against the mast before he caught himself. He grimaced, and straightened out, then started towards the hold. Every other step was a stumble, and his eyes lost focus momentarily. The marines grabbed his arms to steady him. He growled and jerked his limbs loose, and then shoved both men away. They hesitated, exchanging glances, but then let him walk as best he could.

Mantal grunted. "The boy has spirit. A man can break under such a lashing. And I know for a fact that Rayat was not holding back with the scourge."

Arshtat hurried over to Ferid, took his shoulder, and steadied him.

His eyes focused on her, and he made a weary noise that turned into a wheezing cough. "I can walk."

Arshtat thinned her lips. "I'm sure you would attempt to scale a cliff, if given the chance. You strike me as that kind of fool."

The tired smile she got in return lifted her heart. No, this man had not broken. She wondered what it would take for that to happen. She wouldn't want to see what could do it.

Halfway to the hold, Ferid said, "See the ship that approaches."

Arshtat's breath hitched as she turned.

An unpainted vessel plowed through the water towards the _Morning Glory_. A gentle breeze drove its square rig, and crewmen in nondescript work clothes labored to fold its sails in preparation for the rendezvous. No marines could be seen on the small ship's deck. The ensign that flew from the sterncastle was an Island Nations merchant flag.

Mantal leaned on the rail, watching the ship pull alongside. The smile on his lips dashed Arshtat's hopes. He was expecting this vessel.

**-Ferid-**

Ferid hadn't known the body could sustain such pain. The blows had rained on his shoulders and back, and with each lash, what had started as a sudden sting grew more intense as his skin softened and broke under the rawhide tails. It had been enough to make him lose his breath to start with, and then it had gotten worse.

Though the scourge was gone, the heat that welled up in its wake was intense, like a limb left exposed to the withering desert sun until it smoldered. He doubled over by the bulkhead, draping his arms over his legs to keep his back exposed. It was a single entity, his skin, and the pain throbbed with heat as if some fiery devil were burning a hole through his body. He focused on his breath; on drawing in another lungful of the dank hold's air. He could almost taste the pitch used to seal the seams.

He didn't know how long it had taken him to recover enough to shift his focus to the inhabitants of the hold. Several long minutes, if not more. But he had not wasted his time. He had spent those dizzying spells of agony thinking of yet more inventive ways to sink the _Morning Glory _to the bottom of the ocean. He now had at least a dozen ideas worth implementing.

He became aware of voices.

"These people don't know the first thing about caulking," Yahr said. He flattened himself against the hull and ran fingers along the seams. "What are they using here, horse dung?"

Ferid grunted. "You're always worrying about the small things. Learn to worry about the big picture, Yahr." The words came out a croak.

Yahr widened his eyes, and he shot up from the bilge with a look of relief flooding his features. "Lieutenant, you're back with us." He reached to pat him on the shoulder, but thought better of it and stayed his hand, grimacing. Then he frowned and said, "Hey, I need to worry about the little things. I'm shorter than you. If this bucket sinks, I'll be the first to drown."

"I'll be sure to hold you up," Georg muttered as he approached, "So you can see us wave goodbye."

Yahr twisted his lips. "You're even shorter."

Georg shrugged. "I'm still growing. Maybe I'll pass you."

Alzhara sat cross-legged before Ferid. "I won't ask you how you're feeling." She narrowed her eyes, and pressed her mouth tight with disapproval. "Mantal told me why he had you whipped."

Ferid grunted. She had that look of half concern, half affront that he'd only ever seen women muster. Frozen seas, but she actually looked upset with him! His father had once said that if women would mind their own business, they'd never get wrinkles. Of course, he'd muttered it when the others were out of earshot. He was the husband of a boar of a woman, after all, and the blessed father of no less than seven girls. And as for Ferid, he'd gotten used to it.

"What else did he say?"

She straightened her back and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "Apparently, the midshipman you killed,"—she paused to shoot him a glare—"Was the son of a friend of the admiral."

"Barnacles! You expect me to let someone else taste the whip for me?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. You must've oversold the lie to convince Mantal. He could as well have killed you."

Ferid shrugged. "But he didn't." He rubbed at his neck. "Besides, this was the best way to sound the waters. Now we know how many marines there are and what their organization is, and I got a good look at the deck and the rigging."

Alzhara clenched her jaw. She was silent for several heartbeats before saying, "You did this on purpose." There was but the faintest trace of a question in the words.

Ferid had upset enough girls in his time to know that look. He hesitated, then said, "It worked out to our advantage."

Alzhara jerked back as if he had slapped her. She drew her mouth to a thin point as she regarded him. Then she stood, said, "You're a fool," and turned.

He ran his eyes up her backside, then glanced at Georg and Yahr. The mewling foot-lickers didn't meet his eyes. It was pathetic how some men shrank in the presence of women! He scratched at the bristle on his cheek and sighed. "This is too small a place to hold a grudge."

She swung her eyes back over her shoulder. "Do not mistake my disgust for a grudge. I'm merely spending my time on something more fruitful than conversing with dim-witted boar."

"And what are you doing?"

She strolled along the bulkhead, running her hands over the wood. "Thinking on how to escape."

Yahr fidgeted. "Look, lady, this is a _ship_. You don't just escape. There's a procedure." He flushed beet red as she looked at him, but went on to say, "Well, a lot of procedures, but…" He trailed off, shuffling his feet.

Alzhara's eyes pierced Yahr's. "There must be a way."

Yahr lit up with a grin. "Just trust the lieutenant. We've done this before."

"You know," Georg muttered, "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

Alzhara stood above Ferid, arms crossed. "So. It comes back to you."

Ferid leaned back a bit. His back hurt, but the view made up for it. He smirked. "I thought you didn't want to waste your time."

Alzhara's ponytail flashed silver in the lamplight as she jerked her head. "Even the heron must wade with the crabs."

"What else did Mantal say? Is he still trying to decide if you're a spy?"

She shook her head. "Thanks to Jumana's quick thinking, he's now convinced that the three of us were on a smuggling run for darkleaf, and involved with Serwid. One less coincidence to his mind."

If it hadn't hurt so much to move, Ferid would've laughed. Darkleaf? A thought entered his mind: a vision of Alzhara's little sister dragging a sack of contraband twice her size down a Hershville alley.

"Do you find that amusing?"

Ferid wiped the smile from his face. "Certainly not. That's good, that he's off your trail. I also learned some things."

She arched an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"The ship that now stands less than a cable apart from the _Morning Glory_ is out of Razril."

Alzhara slumped down on her haunches. "An Island Nations ship? But why?"

Ferid would like to know that. So this was the course Mantal had plotted on the chart—a rendezvous with an Island Nations ship. The idea of Federation sailors conspiring with the Armesian navy, in their own waters no less, made bile rise at the pit of his throat. He wanted to clamber aboard the vessel and shake people until the truth fell out. But the traitors would be desperate men, and he knew that, if rattled, they would respond with panic, and with violence. And little good would come out of that. There would be time to deal with them later, and Ferid never forgot the look of a ship.

Ferid leaned forward and tapped his fingers together. "I don't know. But I doubt if the Admiral came here just to retrieve a kidnapped boy. The Rune Cannon is at the heart of it, sure as the fish is wet."

Alzhara bit her lip. "Do you think someone from the Island Nations is helping the Armesians develop Rune Cannons?"

The venom had gone out of her face and voice. She squatted with hands on knees before him, and chewed at her lip. And on her head, still that puffy hat, sagging over her brow. For a moment, he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

Alzhara pushed back the hat and waved a hand before his eyes. "What's wrong?"

Ferid blinked. He felt color rise to his cheeks, and coughed. "Nothing. Anyway, I don't want to leap to conclusions, but something's not right here."

She stood back up, towering over him. "What do you intend to do about it, fearless leader?"

Ferid groaned, and clambered to his feet, refusing the helping hands stretched out for him. He wrung the bilge water from his trousers. "I'm not waiting around for bush justice in Muaddha. I've seen Mantal's charts. The course he's following will keep a low profile, but he can't avoid passing by a certain island."

Yahr pressed fingers to his forehead and furrowed his brow, then popped his eyes open. "Jalima Island? But they wouldn't pass close enough to… Oh."

Ferid nodded. "Right."

Alzhara arched an eyebrow. "What?"

Yahr thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled. "Like I said, we've done this before."

It took some time to work out the plan. After they were done, the waiting began.

Ferid found it difficult to keep track of time. Shoddy as the caulking was in places, with water seeping through the seams and trickling into the bilge, it was enough to keep the sun out. If not for the oil lamp that dangled from a hook in the ceiling timbers, darkness would embrace the brig. He had nothing to go by but his best guess.

How much time had passed when the ship rocked into motion? An hour? Two? Subtle changes in the vessel's pitch and roll alerted Ferid even before Alzhara was startled as the ship began to heel. The creak of the bulkheads changed timbre and rhythm.

"How could you know?" Arshtat had wondered.

He hadn't been able to explain it.

Sleep took the others, but Ferid couldn't quite relax. He needed to stay focused. He worked out a method of counting his heartbeats in strings and sequences. It wasn't accurate by any stretch, but at least it kept his mind busy. Too many variables plagued the plan. They'd hammered out the idea together, and worked out the kinks. He knew it was as good as it was going to get. But his idle mind grasped at straws, finding faults and flaws in every detail. He'd tried to focus on something else, but Alzhara's face kept popping into his head when he did that. He swore it was the woman's stubborn nature that got under his skin. Nothing else.

The ship's sudden yaw came after five hours. Maybe four, maybe six or seven. He wasn't sure. But they'd changed course by at least thirty degrees. And that meant that they were getting close.

He felt along the wall as he got to his feet in a haze of exhaustion. It'd pass once his blood got flowing, he knew.

"Yahr, Georg, wake up." He rubbed his boot against the latter's shoulder.

Georg's eyes popped open. He stretched his neck and looked up at Ferid, then grunted and hopped to his feet, spry as a cat. He stretched out his limbs. "Good. I'd go crazy if we had to wait for much longer."

"I'll need that dagger, Yahr," said Ferid.

Yahr rubbed at his bleary eyes. He yawned and nodded, then reached down his sleeve and fished out a dagger that looked to be buried deeper down than the man's clothes went. He tossed it, and it went sailing towards Ferid.

Ferid caught the dagger by the handle and felt along its edge. It was a good weapon. Federation Fleet standard issue, forged as a backup weapon for close quarters combat. For situations just like these.

Alzhara was on her feet, and eyed the weapon. "It's all or nothing now, isn't it? No more slaps on the wrist if we're caught."

Ferid thrust the dagger at the air, feeling its weight and balance. "Right."

Alzhara reached down her dress. All three men jerked around, averting their eyes. Leather rustled, and the snick of metal blades sounded.

"You can look now," she said.

Ferid turned back to see three daggers fanned out in her hand. He gaped.

Alzhara plucked one dagger for herself and held out the other two for Georg and Yahr.

Georg recovered first. He snapped his mouth shut and grabbed a dagger. He looked over the blade and narrowed his eyes on her. "Thanks," he said.

Yahr let slip a nervous chuckle. "Lady, you're just full of surprises," he said, and picked the last dagger. He cradled it like a baby in his hands, and stole several long glances at Alzhara.

Alzhara fixed them both with a stern look. "I'll expect to receive these daggers back in the same condition you received them in. Is that clear?"

Georg widened his eyes. "Uh, right."

Yahr bowed his head. "Yes, lady," he mumbled.

Ferid stared at her. The Armes outfit was bulky, but she'd kept such a bevy of daggers hidden in the thin dress she wore on the _Raven's Revenge_. Mantal had underestimated the woman. If he'd turned her upside down and shook her at the start, iron would've clattered on the deck. She could teach Yahr a thing or two.

"Bloody shark's blood," Ferid muttered under his breath. He shook his head in bewilderment.

Yahr bent down and fished his lockpick from the bilge. He squinted at it, and said, "Armesians have absolutely no imagination."

They lined up by the door and waited until they heard creaking boots outside. Murmurs were muffled by the door as the guard changed. They allowed enough time for the change to be completed and the tired marines to get tucked in back at their bunks.

Yahr worked the tumblers in silence, and got the lock opened. Ferid put his eye to the keyhole. Three marines shuffled their feet outside, basking in the light that pooled beneath a lantern set in the bulkhead. All three men stood close to the door. Ferid waited for the nearest man to stretch out and yawn. Then he turned the knob and slammed open the door.

The wood knocked into the back of the yawning marine's head. A thud and a grunt, and the man stumbled forward. Ferid leapt through the opening. The other marines turned, and looked surprised. He thrust his dagger. The steel blade buried itself in the left-hand man's throat. Ferid yanked the dagger loose and ducked.

A dagger swished over his head. The dying marine gurgled, and gasped for air. Both marines buckled knees and thudded against the bilge.

The third man stumbled to his feet and turned. He opened his mouth to yell a warning.

Georg flashed past Ferid. He flicked his dagger around and hammered the hilt into the side of the marine's face. The blow swung the man around. He slumped down with a drawn-out groan. His head knocked against the bulkhead in several places and then hit the floor with a sickening crack. Blood trickled from his temple, and his eyes blanked out.

Ferid watched the man die, and felt a chill. He shook himself, and stepped over the body. He had preferred not to kill any more of Mantal's men.

Alzhara stepped around the bodies, and studied their dead faces without flinching. She met Ferid's eyes and nodded. She clutched the dagger like she meant to use it.

Yahr hurried over and collected his weapon from the throat of the marine he'd sniped.

Ferid tapped Yahr on the shoulder and flashed a few hand signs.

Yahr responded with an affirmative gesture and disappeared through the door into the fore-hold. Ferid started towards the ladder.

The sky showed through the hatch. Stars twinkled through gaps in dark clouds that blurred the moon. The timing was right. But they had their work cut out for them.

**-Mantal-**

Shouts drifted through from the deck and jerked Mantal out of his thoughts even before the door swung open. His pen rattled against the desk and he looked up to see one of his marines fill the doorway.

The man's eyes were as big as tea cups. He didn't waste time catching his breath before saying, "Sir!"

Mantal leaned against the desk. "What? Out with it, man!"

"They're gone. The spies. The hold is empty!"

Mantal shot up. In his hurry he banged his knee on the desk and gritted his teeth against the pain. He thundered past the man. "Out. Search every inch of the ship! How long ago was this? What about the guards?"

Cursed gods of the desert. He should've stripped the damn spies down to the loins, and propriety be damned! There was no way they could've gotten out of the hold undetected without runes.

The marine ran to keep up. "They're dead, sir. Two stabbed in the throat, the third knocked out."

Mantal snarled. "What about the Riyan?"

The man shook his head. "She's gone, too."

Another marine almost tripped over his spear as he ran up to them. "Sir! One of the boats is missing."

Mantal clutched the starboard rail. "Everybody on the lookout. Scan the waves. I want the damned rats found!"

The _Morning Glory_ cut through calm seas. Now and then the moon would come out and glitter against the waves, but it was too dark to see well. Mantal stared wide-eyed at the midnight blue canvas, and tried to discern the spray of oars or the bobbing of a boat against the background. He dared not blink, for fear of missing the slightest little sign. His eyes soon ached with the effort.

"Captain!" a sailor called from the crow's nest. "There's a light!"

Mantal jerked his head up to see where the man was pointing. He followed the gesture and swung around.

A tiny light bobbed on the waves, flickering as though the dark seas threatened to swallow it up. The glow was just strong enough to betray the wooden frame of a small vessel several hundred yards out. Behind it, the dark shape of an island pierced the horizon.

Mantal took the steps of the sterncastle two at a time. "Hard to starboard!" he yelled.

The helmsman rolled the wheel, and the ship yawed. The sails flapped, went slack, and then caught the wind and stretched out.

Mantal clung to the rail, and jabbed a hand at the lantern bobbing on the waves in the distance. He watched the _Morning Glory _gain on the boat, and gnashed his teeth. So they thought they could run from Admiral Jasuan Mantal? The fools would learn different.

The lantern's light grew as it drew close. Mantal thundered down the stairs to the deck. "Marines, to me. Ready for battle! If they resist, kill them." He made his way to the bow in anticipation of overtaking the boat. He leaned against the rail and stared at the lantern. The island grew close behind it, but the boat was coming up fast. He put a grim smile on his lips.

The _Morning Glory _swept past, and the lantern's light illuminated the vessel. Mantal drew his saber.

Two barrels bobbed on the water, lashed together with thick lengths of rope. Another rope lashed the lantern to a wooden board wedged between the barrels. A sheet of canvas hung half-secured from the board, flapping in the wind and soaking in the salt water. It had been rigged so that the lantern would be obscured until some time had passed. The makeshift raft was barely sea-worthy. It had drifted with the stream towards the island.

Mantal clenched his teeth and shook his fists. The spies had played him for a fool. He turned to his marines, and shouted, "Find them!"

The marines had been staring at the admiral. Now, his voice scrambled them, and in a moment, the deck was alive with the pounding of boots.

Mantal slammed his fist on the rail. His fingers numbed. "And bring out the cannon!"

**-Arshtat-**

Water sloshed between the boat and the stern of the _Morning Glory_. Their tiny vessel bobbed on the waves in the shadow beneath the sterncastle.

Arshtat huddled in the back of the boat, clutching a projecting ornament on the ship's stern. Her hands cramped. The water was altogether too close for her tastes. Beside her, Jumana huddled, her legs crossed on the wet floor. The woman had her eyes bulged, and was fighting down the panic, surrounded by water less than two feet away on all sides.

Shouts sounded on deck. Admiral Mantal's words were made indistinct by the bulkheads between them, but he sounded livid. The sails were shortened, and the ship slowed. At the same time, the rudder creaked in the water, and the _Morning Glory _yawed to port. They'd found the decoy.

It was all the signal they needed. Ferid and Georg shipped the oars, put their backs into it, and dug into the water.

Jalima Island loomed close, taunting them with its presence. At a distance of a hundred yards, the features of the craggy island showed. The steep sides of the island ascended across jagged rock towards a bushy plateau, where the dark structure of a lighthouse rose.

Arshtat prayed this ruse would work. Their special objectives necessitated a more complex escape than she would have prefered. To simply slip away in the night had been so tempting.

They were halfway to where water rolled in over the shore when the thunder struck. But there was no lightning; only a flash from the hull of the _Morning Glory_.

Ferid swore, then said, "Get down!" He clenched his teeth, and leaned back as far as he could while still keeping momentum for the oars.

A flaring sphere hurtled towards them, turning black sky to pulsing gray.

Arshtat hit the deck and coiled up in the bilge. Water soaked her trousers. Jumana huddled over her, using her body to shield her charge.

The cannon shell punched through the surface of the ocean with a sound like water pouring on hot rocks. Warm water sprayed on Arshtat. The boat rocked. Steam rose from the sizzling surface, and bubbles rose into the air.

Arshtat pushed Jumana aside and looked around.

The burning shell had hit the sea less than two yards from their position. It was a good shot. Their next one, she assumed, would be better.

Georg and Ferid worked the oars in a frenzy. "Pull! Pull!" Ferid shouted in tune with the creak of the oars. The rowlocks groaned under the pressure.

The cannon boomed. Another flash lit up the side of the _Morning Glory_. The shell whistled through the night.

The shore beckoned. Twenty-odd yards separated them from the island, and the bushes above the sand rustled in the midnight breeze. Beside the twenty-foot-wide stretch of the strand, tall cliffs shot up.

Arshtat clenched her teeth. The plan hinged on this. If they didn't make it ashore, it would all be for naught. Even Yahr's work would be wasted. She stared into Ferid's vacant eyes, and followed his every push and pull of the back. Her fingers itched to picked up the oar, but she knew that even if there were space for her, she would do more harm than good. She bowed her head, but remained seated. If she was hit, she was hit. She wouldn't be caught huddling in the bilge during her final moments. She was a mouse; not a rat.

The cannon shell came crashing down. Water plumed, and wood splintered and exploded. The boat rocked to the right as if a great weight had been forced down on its side. Heat washed over Arshtat and singed her clothes. The breath was forced out of her lungs, and then the pluming water sprayed over her.

Arshtat clung to the side of the boat and to Jumana. She forced her eyes open and squinted against the waning fire. The shell had caught the boat on the starboard gunwale and punched right through. Water poured into the vessel, and the boat listed more and more with each second.

Jumana clawed at the intact side of the boat and flailed her feet, trying to bail water. It seemed a pointless effort. Georg shielded his face from the explosion, jerking at the oar ineffectually. At his side, Ferid slumped against the splintered gunwale. The side of his face was slick with blood mixed with water, and his eyes were pulled shut. As Arshtat rose in her seat and tried to figure out if he were dead or unconscious, his shoulder slid over the edge, and he plummeted into the water.

"No!" Arshtat cried. She lunged at the side of the boat. The vessel rocked and tilted beneath the sudden displacement of weight. She jabbed her hand into the water and clawed her fingers around Ferid's forearm. His skin slipped in her grip until she caught onto his wrist. She put her foot against the listing gunwale and pulled, feeling more water than wood against her boot. Ferid's body jerked suddenly, and Arshtat slipped. The sudden tug pulled her over.

"Highness!" Jumana cried out.

Arshtat hit the water shoulder first. She swallowed salt water, and sputtered. She flailed her arms and grasped a piece of the rail. The wood broke loose into splinters that dug into her skin, and the current tugged her away from the boat.

"Ferid!" she said between coughs and gasps. She lashed out with her hands beneath the surface, like tentacles seeking for him. Her fingers brushed against something just at the edge of her reach.

Bubbles rose to the surface where he'd gone under. She kicked and flailed but couldn't stay afloat. Water rushed into her ears and drowned out Jumana's shouts. She broke the surface for one last gasp, but then a wave washed over her face. She clutched and clawed at Ferid's sinking form, and got her hand around his shoulder. Panic welled up inside. She felt for Ferid's face, and slapped him with open fingers. She couldn't get as much force behind it as she wanted.

She thought she saw his eyes flutter open, but then it was too late. A desperate need overpowered her. She clawed for the surface, but all she could see was darkness, and the glint of light somewhere above. Then the light dimmed.


End file.
